


Handle with Care

by Brainygiirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Caning, Discipline, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Light Dom/sub, Light dom John Watson, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Past Drug Use, Smut, Spanking, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Switching, Top John, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 23:17:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 64,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13445496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brainygiirl/pseuds/Brainygiirl
Summary: Sherlock's been clean for 46 days and today should have been John's watch. But Sarah needs him and Greg is the backup. No one's happy, but they're going to try to make it work.





	1. Wake-Up Call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FinAmour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/gifts), [Mazarin221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/gifts).



> My first attempt ever! Thanks to finamour and Mazarin221b for giving me the incentive needed to pluck up my courage and put it out there.

It was supposed to be John’s shift, but a call from Sarah had come early, begging him to come in and she sounded so desperate he just couldn’t turn her down. That was what a locum was for, wasn’t it? Truth be told, he didn’t want to. He had spent two extra days with Sherlock since Harry and Clara were both down with stomach flu and he really needed a spell with some ordinary humans. Sherlock would not be pleased. He hated the schedule to be changed for any reason, less so when it was at the last minute, and least of all when it meant having to leave the flat. Not to mention when it meant less time with John.

Fortunately for the moment Sherlock was asleep as he normally would be at 7 in the morning. It was a brilliant fall day with sunshine as crisp as the temperature. That was not going to help. It was easier to get him out of bed on a grey London morning.

Before he woke him, he’d have to find someone to take over. He didn’t want Sherlock trying to cope with the uncertainty of not knowing where he’d spend the day on top of having to spend it with somebody else. John leaned forward on the table with his head hanging down and braced himself for the hunt.

Mrs. Hudson was the usual go-to person on days like these, but Wednesdays were bridge days and they were sacrosanct. He wouldn’t even dare to ask.

Good old Molly he thought, and punched her up on speed dial. She picked up the phone and, knowing there could be only one reason for a call at that time, she started speaking immediately. “Sorry. I’m so sorry, John, I would, you know I would, but we have medical students coming and I have to show them around the lab and give a talk and answer questions and I just can’t have him deducing them and telling which one is going to drop out and who’s sleeping with the professor and correcting me and—”, he cut her off.

“It's ok. It’s ok, I understand. I understand completely. I wouldn’t let him come anyway on a day like that, Molly. Knock ‘em dead and don’t worry.”

Molly said, “You're going to find somebody, though right? He’s doing so well, you’re not going to leave him alone?”

John thanked his lucky stars again to know that everyone was just as invested in Sherlock staying clean as he was.

“Course not. I’m not going to give him an inch. I’ll find somebody. Worst case scenario, I’ll bring him with me.” He was glad Molly couldn’t see him wince. The last time Sherlock had come to the surgery, 3 patients had left in tears and they’d had to stay after hours to clean the walls of the results of his experiment (“I’m on the verge of a major discovery, John. You should be thanking me, not tallying up demerits.”) Maybe he could hire someone…

Mycroft next.

“Absolutely impossible today, John. If you had called me yesterday I would have been able to handle him. I was in a Category 3 bunker with a soundproof room and we all would have been perfectly safe.”

John answered quietly, “Sarah didn’t call yesterday Mycroft. She called today. I need a sitter today.”

“Well it’s not possible. I am meeting with the representative of the…a very important person and there are protocols that must be maintained. I don’t even have anywhere to lock him up! My whole staff is on call. You’ve got to get someone else. You will get someone else, won’t you?”

As much as he wanted to press him, John knew that the security of the nation (the free world?) could not be compromised, no matter how worried Mycroft was about Sherlock’s progress.

“Yes Mycroft, I won’t leave him alone.”

Mycroft hesitantly, “I could compensate you for the lost wages if you can’t--”

John cut him off.

“Shut up Mycroft, it’s not about the money, you know that. Sarah is my friend. And I want to keep my hand in. And you know better than anyone, if I don’t have time away from him, I’m liable to kill him.”

Mycroft sighed deeply, and said, “I know, I know. And I hope you know how deeply grateful I am that you’ve taken on the task. I apologize if I’ve offended you. Text me if all else fails. I suppose we could put him on a plane for a few hours.”

“A submarine maybe?” John added hopefully.

“Hmm.” He considered. “Well, keep me informed on the progress anyway. Although I will be unreachable for a bit of a while.”

Great, thought John as he hung up.

He idly scrolled the contacts in his mobile and saw Angelo’s. Could Angelo handle him for a few hours? Although upon visualizing the kitchen, John saw cleavers, knives, pots of boiling water and shuddered at the potential carnage. He shook his head, realizing his gross miscalculation.

Lestrade it was. He owed us anyway, John rationalised to himself. And I’m sure he could stash him in the cells as a last resort. Lots of restraining equipment available. He pushed the number.

He spoke immediately to forestall rejection.

“I’ve gone through the list, Greg, there is no one else and I’m not giving up this shift. I will deliver him and it will only be for 6 hours. I won’t take lunch and I won’t take any breaks and I won’t take any patients after 3, I swear.”  
Greg cursed under his breath and John could almost see him grinding the heel of his hand into his forehead.

“Didn’t I just have him the other day?”

“That was last Tuesday. I’m keeping a calendar, so no one can accuse me of cheating.” John stated firmly. “It’s been more than a week.” Time to switch tactics.

“He’s doing so well. 46 days. Please? We can’t leave him unsupervised—”

“NO. Bloody hell, no. I tried that after 51 days once and he was back in Brixton in an hour. Picked 3 locks and slid through an air duct. I was such an idiot. And he told me so in front of the whole squad. No. Not again. What time are you gonna drop him?”

John whispered a silent thank you to whoever might be listening and said, “Cheers. Sometime before 9,” hanging up quickly, not wanting to give him a chance to reconsider. This “Pass the Parcel” had gone on far too long. Now for the package himself. He approached with care, as one should a suspicious package. He looked like such an angel when he was sleeping, curls spread out on the white linen, arms lying gracefully, soft, sweet face. It was almost cunning.

John slipped out of his robe and slid into the bed in his boxers. As soon as Sherlock felt the dip in the mattress he rolled over and flung his arm across John’s chest. As standoffish and averse to touch as he was with others, he was a positive heat-seeking missile for John. He wondered if that was what mother koalas felt like. He supposed that if he could, Sherlock would choose to be carried around in a sling all day. Not that he was complaining-the tenting of his pants argued in favor of skin-to-skin contact. John turned towards him and slid his hand up the inside of his leg, humming when his wrist bumped into a cock that wasn’t quite as far along as his own. He decided to fix that.

He lifted his hand and let it rest along the warm length without moving until he felt it start to twitch and swell. He hummed again and began to squeeze gently and slide his fingers up and down until some of his other parts began to stir as well. Sherlock drew his leg up until his knee was resting on top of John’s, allowing him more access to the growing thickness.

John leaned over and whispered into Sherlock’s ear, “Are you waking up my sleeping beauty?” giving the lobe a tiny nibble. He was gratified by a low grumble coming from deep in Sherlock’s chest. He pried off his limbs reluctantly and untangled the sheets. (Sherlock was always tangled in the sheets.) He pushed on his shoulder so that he was flat on his back and straddled him. He slid his hands down over Sherlock’s collarbones, and paused at his nipples to give them some attention on the way, just the lightest of circling strokes. Against his back, he could feel that Sherlock had now attained his usual morning erection. Already halfway there, he thought. Sherlock grumbled some more.

“I don’t want to wake up. Don’t stop.” John squeezed the nubs gently and Sherlock covered his head with the pillow, wriggling just the tiniest bit under John’s fingers. John took that as an invitation and started kissing from the tip of his chin, down his breastbone and all the way through his wiry pubic hair. When he reached the Promised Land, he closed his lips, nuzzling up and down the length of him as slowly as he could. Sherlock reached his impossibly long arms down to John’s shoulders, began to feel his way around like a blind man. He moved his hands up and down John’s neck and then around to his cheeks, arching his back a little when John’s tongue poked out and began leaving a trail of saliva everywhere he went.

John looked up to see if Sherlock’s head was out in the open yet. No, not quite. Let’s see what we can do about that, he thought. He brought his mouth down and slid the foreskin back gently with his lips. He swirled the tip of his tongue around and around the head, tasting the precome that was beginning to leak from the slit. A moan from the mound under the pillow indicated that the plan was working. Sherlock’s hands found their way to John’s hair and he grabbed on tight.

John looked up with a smile. “My, you taste delicious this morning, gorgeous boy.”

Critical error. Sherlock’s hands froze. He let go of John and took the pillow off his head. He was suddenly and shockingly alert. He propped himself up on his elbows.

“Morning? Morning? Why are you waking me up in the morning? It’s a lovely way to wake up, no doubt, but today is a free day. We talked about it last night.” His eyes were most definitely open now, but they were glaring down at his wake up call.

Shit. Whenever John was in charge, Sherlock considered it a day free from odious tasks like waking up, going outside and the other mundane activities, to which the ordinary human was subject. And he was right. They had talked about it last night. John always prepared Sherlock for the coming day. He did not handle surprises well (unless it was a new case), which was why John was hoping to move him closer to his pliant, sated, obedient self before he had to break the news to him. Shit. Oh well. Best laid plans, into the breach and all that. John rolled off of him and propped his head up, leaning on his elbow.

“Yes, you’re right, it was supposed to be a free day, love, and I’m very sorry, but plans have changed.” John spoke softly and soothingly, as if to a hissing kitten. He held Sherlock’s cheek and then stroked his wild hair back off his forehead. “We did talk about it last night, but we’ve also talked about how plans have to be changed sometimes. This is one of those times. Sarah’s been caught short at the surgery and I have to go. There’s no one else to fill in. So let’s finish what we started so at least we can have a pleasant morning,” he said, looking lasciviously down where his mouth had been a few moments before. His optimism was unwarranted.

Sherlock sat up, crossed his arms over his chest and his glare slid into his pout, complete with lower lip extension.

“That’s not fair. We were going to sleep late and…do things.”

He was still such a child: vulnerable though he tried to hide it, insecure despite his intellectual superiority, and afraid of loss, no matter how John tried to reassure him. He pushed down a wave of sympathy and tried to take his eyes off that luscious lower lip.

“I know, love, but I had to make a decision. I haven’t worked since last week and—”

Sherlock cut him off, leaning forward, with a spark of hope in his eyes.

“But John, we don’t need the money! We had so many cases last month, we can afford to take it easy for a while!”

John shook his head. More childish thinking.

“We did well last month, Sherlock, but you can’t count on that continuing. And you don’t want to rely on Mycroft. Besides we talked about building up our retirement fund for a cottage. Sussex? Beehives? Remember? This is a way to do that.”

A little incentive never hurt. But no such luck. The pout returned.

“Sarah needs to know she can count on me, otherwise she’ll stop calling altogether. And I need to keep up my skills.”

Sherlock collapsed dramatically onto the mattress, giving a disbelieving snort and covering his face with the pillow again. He mumbled from beneath.

“Your skill level has nothing to do with this. You just want to get away from me. You’re tired of me because—”

John knew where this was headed-straight to the bottom of the well. It was as easy for Sherlock to send himself spiraling into despair, as it was for him to shoot off like a rocket at the thought of a serial killer. It might be one of the reasons he had turned to drugs, for their stabilizing effects on his emotions, rather than the highs most people assumed he was chasing.

“Stop it right now,” said John as he crawled right up over him and caged him in. He uncovered Sherlock’s face and mussed up his hair roughly with his fingertips. “You know that’s not true and it’s not kind to say so. You’re trying to make me feel guilty and that’s not fair.” He cleared his throat meaningfully.

Sherlock opened his eyes and grimaced.

“I’m supposed to apologize now, right? Even if I don’t feel sorry?” Pouting again. John kissed his irresistible pouty lips and gave them a swipe with his tongue.

“Yes. You are. Hurry up.”

“I’m sorry if my words reveal an unpleasant truth, then.”

John gave him a nip on the very same lips.

“Ow, alright I am sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” His eyebrows furrowed and his already somewhat creaky morning voice lowered in pitch and volume. “It’s just that you’ve kept me clean for 46 days now and,” he took a deep breath, “I’m afraid.”

John knew this wasn’t manipulation. They were both scared. Sherlock’s grip on sobriety was never as firm as they would have liked and 46 days was not nearly long enough according to the rehab centers Mycroft had sent him to in years prior. But John had confidence in the backup team and told Sherlock so.

“You’ve kept yourself clean. We’ve just been helping. You’re going to spend the day with Lestrade,” Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned, while John kept talking, “and there’s no way he’s going to let you slip away. He’s better than all of us at keeping his eye on you. He’s certainly the most experienced. And you’re NOT to take that as some kind of challenge.” He removed the pillow again and gave him a very stern look. Sherlock sighed, accepting that he was beaten. For the moment.

“I’m going to be so very bored,” he muttered tragically.

Still hoping for the tired, manageable version of Sherlock, for Lestrade’s sake, John lowered his hips and started to move them in very small circles, encouraging the stirrings of the erection that had wilted in the wake of Sherlock’s anxiety.

“Even more of a reason to take advantage of the potentially fascinating developments occurring at this very moment between your legs,” John teased as he ground his cotton covered groin up against Sherlock’s naked one. Things moved rather quickly from there. “You see? You never know what might happen. Maybe an interesting case will come in. Things change in the blink--” He cut off with a groan as the blood flowing to his groin stiffened him so that he could slide up against alongside Sherlock’s bollocks. He nudged his cock and dropped his upper body so that their chests were in full contact.

Sherlock reached his hands around to grasp the cheeks of John’s arse and lifted his own hips against the pressure of John’s. He arched his head and neck back, exposing that long, lovely, white throat of his. Thoughts of the potential disasters awaiting fled John’s mind and he ran the point of his tongue from Sherlock’s collar bone up along his throat to his Adam’s apple and under his chin, then up along his jaw to that particular spot behind his earlobe, where he licked and slurped noisily. Sherlock broke into a shudder and moaned, lifting his shoulder and trapping John’s jaw, twisting his head in an attempt to move away or get closer, John wasn’t sure which.

John whispered, “I’m going to make sure you don’t forget that I’m right there with you, wherever you are,” and he sucked hard on Sherlock’s skin, “You’ll have marks all over you, to remind you while we’re apart.” He moved his mouth lower and bit down just hard enough to leave a bruise. He sucked and scraped with his teeth. Sherlock writhed underneath him, moaning, “Yes, yes, I want to remember, I need to remember. Harder, more. Put it in the mind palace.”

John growled, “To hell with the palace, I’m putting it on your skin, all over you, so you can see it everywhere you look, so everyone can see it, so you’ll know what will happen to you if you forget.” He punctuated every phrase with a bite or a scrape of his teeth or a harsh suck that would leave Sherlock looking like the survivor of some long vanquished plague, John thought. Smallpox? Scurvy? He continued the ravishment all the way down to the hair surrounding Sherlock’s erection and then gently rubbing his cheeks along Sherlock’s pulsing cock and freezing him into stone. He tickled up one side with his stubble, swirled his tongue around the leaking head and ran his cheek down the other side. He scooped up his balls in one hand and rolled them softly around in his palm before licking them, making obscene slurping noises until they were covered in saliva.

“John, please. Please.”

There we are, he thought, that’s the mindset we’re looking for. Needy. Willing to ask for what he needs and at ease with letting go.

He continued to tease, wanting to get Sherlock to a place where he would be open and undefended, not confident and invulnerable. He knew how Sherlock’s aloof attitude and solitary nature had protected him during the horrible lonely years when he was tormented and bullied as a freak, but there was no need for it now, especially not when he was at risk of sliding back into his reliance on chemical defenses. He needed to let the people who loved him help. He needed to remember how good it was to receive.

John slid his hands down onto Sherlock’s hips and held him down. He traced his tongue up the winding vein in his cock and when he reached the crown, he took it in all at once, right down to the root, sucking his cheeks in firmly. Sherlock tried to buck up against the sweet friction, but John held him securely, wanting him to feel safe enough to release control and rely on someone else for his pleasure and well-being. As he whimpered and held himself still, John moved his hands around the sides of his hips and cupped the cheeks of his arse in his hands, squeezing and releasing the muscles. He bobbed his head up and down slowly and Sherlock’s moans were now almost constant. John used his right hand to hold the base of Sherlock’s cock and the index finger on his left to circle the pucker underneath that was already dripping wet with a combination of spit and precome.

Sherlock obediently kept his hips still against the mattress, but he was thrashing his head back and forth as the waves of pleasure began to overwhelm him. John smiled around the beautiful obstruction in his mouth and inserted his finger to the first knuckle. Sherlock clenched around him and John wished they had enough time to pursue that avenue more thoroughly. Not now he thought sadly. He pushed a little farther and was rewarded with more head thrashing and a guttural, “Pleeeeeease.” Sherlock was twisting the sheets in both fists. That was his second request, he thought. Once more and it will be time. He pushed his finger in completely, and began twisting and sliding, twisting and pushing, and then the third time, “Please John, please, John, John, please--” his voice breaking on the last syllable and John knew he had him. He found his prostate and rubbed gently, once, twice, three times and Sherlock thrust his hips up helplessly, thrusting against the back of John’s throat, coming seemingly endlessly. John swallowed most of his release but allowed some to spill down Sherlock’s still pulsating cock.

When the spasms had mostly passed he allowed the head to pop out of his mouth and sat back on his heels to attend to his own pressing need. He slicked up his hand with the slippery mix left behind. At Sherlock’s hiss of oversensitivity, he released him and said, “Open your eyes. Look what you do to me, how hard you make me.”

Sherlock looked and made as if to sit up, but John placed his hand on his chest and said, “Don’t move. Just watch.” He took hold of himself and stroked, slowly at first but it wasn’t long before he was pumping rapidly and throwing his head back as he came, spurting up and across Sherlock’s flushed chest. Sherlock scooped up a fingerful and licked it delicately off his finger, as John watched and shuddered, then lowered himself so that all his weight was crushing Sherlock to the mattress. Not enough pressure apparently because he felt Sherlock’s arms clasping him even more tightly. “You took my breath away already, love, let me catch up.” Sherlock complained but allowed John to roll over onto his back. “That was amazing.”

Sherlock raised himself up on one elbow and glared disapprovingly. “You did all the work,” he said grouchily.

John reached up for his other hand, turned it over and kissed his palm. “Things don’t always have to be even, Sherlock. Sometimes I want you to be the center of attention. I want you to lay back and just feel. Think about that today when you’re so desperately bored, about how everyone is taking care of you. How everyone is so focused on making sure you’re all right. And try to behave because that’s a way of saying you appreciate it. You’re not very good at saying thank you, but you can say it without using the words.”

Sherlock flipped his hand over and kissed the back of the hand holding his own. John heard him whisper thank you, but it sounded very much like it was just to prove a point. No matter. He whispered back, “You’re welcome.”

After a few moments spent coming back down to earth, John elbowed Sherlock in the ribs. “Oi. Go shower so you have enough time to finesse your curls properly. I’ll make breakfast,” then quickly, to forestall the complaint forming on Sherlock’s lips, “Just tea and toast, no arguing. You’re not going to add low blood sugar to Lestrade’s problems this morning.”

Sherlock let out a pro forma ‘humph’ and stomped half-heartedly into the loo. John was relieved to see that he was still too warm and fuzzy to put up a genuine fuss and hoped the endorphin swell would carry him through the rest of the morning. For Lestrade’s sake at least.

John had already finished his breakfast by the time Sherlock made it into the kitchen, resplendent in his purple shirt, curls shining, backlit by the sun streaming in through the windows. He paused in a pose worthy of a fashion spread and John had a suspicion that it wasn’t entirely spontaneous. “Are you teasing me?” he asked.

Sherlock turned to him with a look of such practiced innocence that John knew he was being punished. The message was, ‘see what you’re going to be missing out on because of your boring insistence on working at that intolerable surgery?’ He responded to the unspoken rebuke. “Can’t be helped Sherlock. Come eat your toast like a good boy. The later I arrive, the later I’ll have to stay.” He waited long enough to watch Sherlock finish at least a half a slice of toast, then proceeded to his own five minute shower and in another five they were in a cab on the way to New Scotland Yard. Accompanying him would make John that much later, but the risk of Sherlock absconding was too great. Not that he would necessarily be on his way to find a dealer. Everyone was quite hopeful about Sherlock’s progress so far. But he would do anything to escape a day of forced inactivity.

John hurried Sherlock through the squad room to minimize the number of insulting deductions and they presented themselves at Lestrade’s desk. He didn’t lift his head from his paperwork and forgoing a greeting, spoke directly to John. “I’m not gonna fight with him about lunch, so I hope you fed him. And if you’re not here by 4, I’m leavin’ him in a cell wrapped in a jacket.”

John answered rapid fire. “He’s had breakfast. You can offer him something for tea around 1,” and turned around to glare Sherlock into silence, “BUT he doesn’t have to eat it. I will be here by 4. If there’s traffic I’ll call you for a car with sirens to come get me, but I don’t expect any problems. He knows there will be severe consequences for ANY infractions,” another glare, “and he knows he should be grateful to you for helping him out this way.” He turned once more at Sherlock’s indignant inhalation and fixed him with his best, grim captainly face and said, “Don’t you, Sherlock” in a tone that was far from questioning. Sherlock closed his eyes and raised his chin. Through gritted teeth, he spoke directly to John. “Yes, I know.”

Lestrade watched the exchange and came around to the front of the desk. He spoke directly to Sherlock now. “All right then, let me tell you what grateful looks like. You stay where I put you, you don’t pick any fights with anybody and no experimenting. And you,” poking his finger into John’s chest, “one minute after 4, and he’s in the cage. Oh,” he leaned over and grabbed a notepad from the desk, reading from it, “and a check-in on the half-hour and take-away for the division. Only the ones who didn’t volunteer to go out on patrol, which is half of ‘em,” looking pointedly at Sherlock, who attempted an innocent face. Lestrade continued. “You’re gonna sit at the desk up against the glass where somebody’s gonna be able to see you at all times. You can pace around the perimeter we set up but if you gotta use the loo, somebody goes with you.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but to John, they sounded like well thought out precautions. John was impressed once again with Lestrade’s attention to detail, even if Sherlock wasn’t.

“First time you break a rule—” John interrupted, “He won’t be breaking any rules if he knows what’s good for him.” Sherlock slid his eyes sideways to look at him, but Lestrade carried on, “First time, your leg gets cuffed to the desk. Second time, hand to the chair. Third time,” he turned back to John, “special delivery back to Dad,” jerking his head toward John. Sherlock crossed his arms in indignation and huffed.

John checked his watch. “Agreed. Very sensible.” He stuck his hand out towards Lestrade and they shook on the gentlemen’s agreement. He shoved Sherlock towards Lestrade and said, “Sherlock? Sherlock. Agreed?” He gave him another little shove. Sherlock uncrossed his arms and clenched his fists. He tightened his lips and stuck his hand out reluctantly. Lestrade grabbed it and pulled him in tight. Sherlock was caught off balance and Lestrade grabbed his head to whisper in his ear. “It’s for your own good you mad bastard. We’re not gonna let you slip away from us this time.” He shoved him away and turned back toward his desk to give Sherlock a moment to recover from his affectionate assault.

He picked up a huge stack of files and started walking towards the only clean desk in the squad room. It was up against a wall of glass. The desks around it had been pushed back leaving a meter clear on every side. As John and Sherlock followed him they could see there was a set of cuffs around one of its legs and another set hanging from the chair. He dumped the files on the desk and said, “These are cold cases from three divisions. I couldn’t bring them to you before because they’re not mine and they can’t leave the building so I’ve been saving them up.” Sherlock tilted his head and the tiniest flicker of interest jumped to life in his eyes. “Mind you, they’re not all murders,” Sherlock’s shoulders drooped and the ember died, but Lestrade continued, “BUT there’s reason to believe that some of the perps might have escalated to that later on. If you could find any patterns…” he trailed off enticingly, and the spark rekindled.

John was impressed again and relieved. Good old Greg. That project might actually buy them a few hours of blessed silence while Sherlock integrated the new data into his mind palace. In fact, with another obligatory huff, he shrugged off his coat while walking around the desk. There was a wardrobe off to the left and, keeping an eye on the desk, he opened the door and hung up his coat. He walked back to the desk and sat down.

Lestrade gave John a wink and John nodded. He checked his watch again. “Right. That’s sorted then,” and walked around behind the chair. Sherlock had taken the first file from the stack and was flipping through the pages. A couple of words jumped out from the page as John looked over his shoulder: 70-year-old woman, assault, ligature marks. He shook his head to clear it and then grabbed Sherlock’s chin, tilting his head up so he could kiss his forehead. Sherlock’s eyes stayed fixed on the page in front of him until John tightened his grip around his throat and said, “Oi.” Sherlock frowned and lifted his eyes. “Behave. Or else.” Sherlock grunted. John planted another kiss and then left for the easy part of his day.


	2. Crime and Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go wrong, but not as badly as they could have. Still, there will have to be consequences.

The morning was routine enough and John was able to check in between patients. Everything was stable and Lestrade said Sherlock had already identified 4 cases that might have presaged later, more violent crimes and dismissed 32 as “boring.” He’d spent an hour in the mind palace and had never left the chair. At noon, John thought, “So far, so good” and texted his problem child. 

Going well?—JW  
Bored—SH  
Behaving?—JW  
BORED—SH  
You’re halfway there—JW  
Leave early?—SH  
Not likely. Keep on those cases—JW  
Boring—SH

Routine check-ins from half 12 to 2. Sherlock texted him at 2:30.

Last patient, correct?--SH  
I promised.-- JW  
It’s getting loud.--SH

Uh-oh, John thought. The officers were coming back for shift change. John knew it would be noisy and busy as they checked in, shouted greetings, compared notes on the day.

Put your headphones in and face the window.—JW

A brief pause and then, miracle of miracles,

You are intermittently and surprisingly helpful.—SH  
Happy to be of service.—JW

John grinned ruefully and was starting to think they might just make it all the way through, when at 2:46, he felt his stomach slide. It was the call alert for Lestrade’s number. Not the text alert. He apologized to Mrs. Winslow, a regular on the third Wednesday of the month when the Senior Center was closed for staff meetings, and stepped into the hall. 

“What’s happened?” no formal greeting being necessary.

Lestrade shouted into the phone, trying to make himself heard over the siren blaring.

“He’s gone, just bloody gone. I saw him, went to make coffee, no more than 2 minutes, and when I got back he was gone. Vanished. I’ve got everyone here doing a room to room and an APW on the street. Fuck!” John heard him slamming his hand down on the steering wheel. “He’s six feet tall! How does he just disappear? I’m heading to Crosley, but you better go to Brixton. Can you reach Billy?”

John rubbed the side of his head in the depression below his temple, where the hand drill of a migraine was beginning to twist. 

“Yah. Should we call Mycroft?”

He heard another alert and told Greg to hold on. He looked at the screen and saw Mycroft’s message: “HOW IN GOD’S NAME DID HE GET AWAY?” He’d be ignoring that one.

He heard Greg’s patrol car door slam. “No worries on that. The helicopters are already deployed, damn it. Buggering FUCK! I’m gonna kill him. This time I’m really gonna kill him.”

John hurried back into the office, mouthing “Sorry,” to Mrs. Winslow and shrugging into his jacket. “You’ll have to catch the little ba-,” remembering the genteel lady watching him, he amended, “rascal before I do then.” He hung up.

“Mrs. Winslow, I am so terribly sorry, but I’ve got to go. Family emergency.”

“Sherlock again, is it dear? No apology necessary. I had a naughty one myself. Run along, I’ll see you next month.” John thanked her, sparing a moment in recognition of the unflappable grannies of England and literally bumped into Sarah on his way out the door. She held up her hand and said, “It’s fine, go. She’s the last and I’m sorry I drew you away--”

John cut her off. “You’re not responsible for this and neither am I. I’ll make it up--” She cut him off in return, pushing him out.

“Call me when you find him. You will find him.”

He heard Mrs. Winslow as the door closed, “You love them to death, but children can be such…”

Did the whole world know about his black sheep?

For once there was a cab right in front. He checked the cabbie’s face against the license, a habit he’d picked up a couple of years ago, and told him “Brixton, quickly please.”

He called Mrs. Hudson, who had apparently already been briefed by Mycroft. She answered, “I’m heading home now, dear. I’ve phoned Angelo and the Thai place. I’ll keep running down the take-away places. Don’t worry. I’m sure he hasn’t gone back.” Those grannies.

He searched his contacts looking for Billy and idly wondered about gps chip technology. He knew they could track pets that way. Was anyone implanting them in humans yet?

Billy didn’t answer, but that wasn’t unexpected. He rarely picked up straightaway. He didn’t bother leaving a message. Billy would recognize his number and in any case, there was only one reason John would be calling him and he would probably ignite the homeless network within minutes. Next was Molly. He knew she would blame herself and he dreaded making the call, but St. Bart’s was a safe place Sherlock might head to if he felt the craving drawing him off course. She picked up on the first ring. 

“Oh no. What’s he done? Where is he? I knew it, I should have cancelled!”

John cut her off. “Stop it Molly, right now. If you blame yourself, we all have to blame ourselves. Do you think it’s my fault? Or Greg’s fault? Whose fault is it?”

“It’s not your fault John! You’ve done everything you possibly can!”

“My point exactly. So have you. Let’s stay focused on what we can do now. Are the students gone? Can you run round to the lab and check if he’s there?”

“I’m on my way. I’ll ring back if I find him.”

John said, “Thanks-and it’s not your fault! I hear you feeling guilty! I forbid you!” and hung up. 

He texted Sherlock.

Where the hell are you? –JW

He stared out the window of the cab, searching like a sea captain’s wife scans the waves, realizing it was futile even as he did so. He kept rubbing his temple to try and relieve the pressure throbbing its way through his skull. A migraine now would be less than helpful. He checked his watch. 3:19. Playing back the timeline in his head, John imagined he’d had between 25 and 30 minutes on the run? That was more than enough time for Sherlock to have set up a buy. He dreaded the thought, but there was every chance that he had made arrangements first thing in the morning. How could he have faith in him when he had disregarded the rules so completely? Though, there was still the possibility that, though he had been tempted away, he was fighting the pull of the needle. 

He texted again using a softer tone.

Tell me where you are. I’m coming. –JW

He thought, ‘Come on, Sherlock, 46 days. Don’t waste them.’ They had been good days, everyone agreed. Sherlock seemed to thrive on the predictability of a schedule. He had even toughed it through a sudden change when Mrs. Hudson had run a fever on one of her shifts and Sherlock had insisted (!) on taking her to the surgery for John to check her over. He’d gone home by himself after dropping her off at Mrs. Turner’s for her to fuss over, and he’d spent the afternoon composing. Positively domestic. They’d celebrated with Chinese takeaway and an epic night of shagging. Since Mrs. Hudson had spent the night, they’d exceeded all previous records for volume. John had had to order a new black silk blindfold after they’d discovered that somehow during the festivities they’d shredded the old one. John smiled dreamily. Good times.

You’ve done so well. We’re all so proud of you.--JW 

He was startled out of his reverie by the chirp of an unfamiliar ringtone. 

Not in Brixton. No word from Crosley. –B

Billy had a new throwaway phone apparently. Damn, damn, damn. Maybe it was a good sign. Brixton was the closest spot to find a dealer. Maybe that wasn’t where he was headed. He texted Lestrade to let him know that Crosley was still a possibility and seconds later Mrs. Hudson reported that he wasn’t at home. 

John spoke to the cabbie. “Change in plans, pull over for a minute and let me think.” 

The cabbie pulled over, saying, “Your shilling, mate.” 

He checked his watch—3:40. 

He texted him again.

Please answer.—JW

Planning for the worst didn’t seem to be working, time to hope for the best. 

I’m not angry.—JW

Where would Sherlock go if he were trying to resist the pull? 

Where are you?—JW

What would fortify his will? Some reminder of success—the chocolate factory? The museum? 

“Belgravia!”

He startled the driver, who peeled away from the kerb in a move worthy of a stunt driver and John was thrown up against the door, his mobile falling to the floor. When he was finally able to pick it up, there was, sweet mercy, a text.

Wrong question again. It’s almost 4. Where are you? –SH

I’m out looking—

John stopped in the middle of the message and phoned. When Sherlock picked up, he said, “John, you know I prefer to text.”

John shouted. “Shut up and tell me where you are, you bloody bastard!”

Sherlock sounded startled and sarcastic simultaneously. “I can hardly do both at the same time.”

John gritted his teeth. “Tell me. Where you are.” He noticed that the cab driver had pulled over and was watching him in the rearview with a curious expression. John nodded to let him know he’d made the right decision. Wasted as a cabbie.

“I can’t believe after all this time you continue to ask questions to which the answer is obvious. I’m right where you left me. Although most everyone else seems to have gone,” he said in a voice that sounded the slightest bit intrigued.

John was a little less frightened. He had picked up a few deductive skills over the years. Sherlock sounded coherent, calm, therefore no heroin or cocaine. No coded phrases, no tapped Morse code, therefore no gun held to his head. Perhaps this was a conversation and not a hostage negotiation.

“Sherlock, you were not where we left you. You were not at the desk, and you were not in the staff room and now all of NSY and MI6 are searching the entire city of London--” John realized he was shouting from the wide eyes and slightly open mouth on the cabbie’s face and whispered the rest, “searching the entire city of London for you.”

Silence. 

“Oh.”

And then, “I see.”

John repeated, “You see? You see?” daring him to comment on the unnecessary repetition. “If you don’t tell me where you are I will kill you when I find you. But I’m not going to promise that one of us isn’t going to kill you anyway.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. 

“I am, currently, sitting at the desk where you left me.”

“No games, Sherlock. I’m going to call everyone off, so if you’re not there when we get back, so help me…”

“John, I assure you, I am here.” he cleared his throat again, “I…I never left the room. I swear it.”

John shook his head in disbelief. 

“Well then, you have my permission to stand up and walk to Lestrade’s desk. Sit in his chair and wait for me to ring his desk phone, then pick it up.”

Sherlock was indignant. “John, you can trust me. You don’t need to—”

John shouted again. “Obviously I do, Sherlock! You can’t be trusted—” He cut himself off. They were not going to have this conversation under these circumstances. “Go to Lestrade’s desk and pick up the phone when it rings. Do it. Now.”

He rang off and counted the seconds it would take Sherlock to get to the office and sit behind the desk. Then he rang Lestrade’s number. Sherlock picked up before the first ring ended.

“I’m here, John,” he said in a voice that was, satisfyingly, less arrogant, and dare he say, more humble.

John took a deep breath. “Don’t move. Don’t cross your legs, don’t even twitch your fingers. I will be there in,” he covered the mouthpiece and looked up at the cabbie in the mirror, “New Scotland Yard?” He whispered ‘13’. John spoke to Sherlock again. “13 minutes.” The cabbie pulled another stunt move and they headed back towards NSY. 

John was breathing hard as he dialed Lestrade who was just as breathless when he picked up the phone. 

He shouted over the wail of the sirens. “Did you find him?”

“I spoke to him. He says he’s still at the office.” Lestrade tried to interrupt, but John held up his hand as if Lestrade could see him, and continued. “I know, I know, but he’s got to be there. I dialed him at your desk. He couldn’t have faked that.”

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade shouted. John heard the shriek of the brakes and the rev of the engine as Lestrade negotiated a reverse turn. 

“Yeah,” said John, “bloody hell.”

Mycroft next.

Call it off—JW  
Do you have a visual?—MH  
Not yet—JW  
Operations continue pending visual confirmation—MH

John couldn’t blame him, but maybe he had been able to reduce his anxiety a bit at the very least.

You’ll be the first to know—JW

He dreaded the thought of having to tell him that Sherlock was, apparently, exactly where they had left him. On the other hand he couldn’t decide who he wanted to be the first to reach him, primarily because he couldn’t decide who would be more likely to do him permanent damage. Lestrade. Definitely Lestrade. Thanks to the cabbie, whose talents were definitely being wasted, John was the first.

As soon as the car screeched to a halt, John flung the door open, and turned toward the cabbie, who cut him off, “I’ll wait.”

The security officer at the front desk was startled to see John racing in, and yelled, “He’s not here!”

John ignored him and ran for the stairs, giving himself a pep talk on the way. ‘He’s here. That means he couldn’t have left the building because there wasn’t enough time. He’s still clean. He answered the texts and it’s not clear whether he lied yet. Keep calm. Don’t lose your temper. You need to be able to engage in a rational, problem-solving dialogue. He’s more likely to talk if he feels safe.’ He realized he was channeling Ella. 

He reached the floor a bit breathless so he forced himself to pause a moment. Then he flung the door open and saw Sherlock through the glass, hands steepled under his chin and feet up on Lestrade’s desk. 

When John threw the door open, he said “Finally. John, I think I’ve solved…”

“You prick. You thoughtless, infuriating... Do you have any, the slightest idea of what you just put us all through? You have terrified everyone who cares about you and has been trying to keep you safe.”

Sherlock wisely took note of the clenched fists and fury on his face and removed his feet from the desk, standing up with widened eyes and taking a step backward, with no thought of the rolling chair behind him. Another two steps and his knees buckled against the edge of the seat as it came up flush against the wall. John had come frighteningly close in that time and Sherlock shuffled to the right, trying to put the desk between himself and the approaching thunderstorm. Sherlock considered fear to be one of the more useless emotions that generally clouded reason, but under the circumstances he could appreciate its evolutionary value as a survival instinct. 

“I can explain, John.”

“NO. You will explain nothing. You will not speak. We are leaving now, before anyone else gets here. They have less self-control than I do and I am not going to put their jobs at risk by letting them get within firing range of you. You’re lucky I left my gun at home because I hardly trust myself at the moment.”

He had reached Sherlock by then, grabbed his wrist and twisted his elbow up behind him. Fleetingly, he considered looking for handcuffs, but hearing sirens approach, he decided that a rapid exit was Sherlock’s best hope for arriving home intact, where John alone could be the one to tear him to pieces. He pushed Sherlock in front of him towards the lift, calculating that Lestrade’s adrenaline would send him up the stairs as it had John. As he pressed the button he heard brakes shrieking and the sirens cut off.

Thoughtfully, with a somewhat surprised look on his face, Sherlock said, “You lied, John. You texted that you weren’t angry.”

John froze and stared at his oblivious genius for a moment, then muttered “Come on, come on,” glancing frantically between the numbers above the lift and the door to the stairs. 

“John, really--”

John lifted Sherlock’s wrist a little higher and he twisted, trying to keep the pressure off his shoulder.

“Shut up. Not a sound. Don’t even think. Your mind palace is the safest place for you right now, Sherlock, so I suggest you go there and lock yourself in.”

Sherlock shut up. 

The stair door flung open as Lestrade was shouting, “Where’s his skinny-arse? He’s in the right place because he’s about to become a homicide victim.” He caught John’s eye and growled, “Oh no, he’s not going anywhere till I get my hands on him.” He ran towards them, pushing rolling chairs out of the way and skirting desks. John angled himself between Lestrade and his prisoner, looking over his shoulder at the lift indicator arrow. With two desks left as the only barrier between Sherlock and a painful death, the lift chimed and the door opened. John shoved him in and Sherlock punched the close door button frantically. They could hear Lestrade as he reached out his arm, trying to stop the door from closing, but it was too late. They were away, at least for the moment.

When they reached the ground floor, John held Sherlock back until he had checked for anyone following Lestrade, but the lobby was empty except for the confused officer behind the desk. He called out, “The Detective Inspector was looking for you,” as John herded Sherlock through the front door. 

God bless that cabbie, who was still waiting. As John ducked Sherlock’s head through the door of the cab, he noticed a familiar, long, black car pulling up tight behind them. John ignored it, but Sherlock twisted his head, trying to keep his eyes fixed on it. John spoke calmly to the driver, “One more lap for the Gran Prix,” he said, as he gave a slight twist to Sherlock’s wrist, “221B Baker Street.” 

Sherlock was now facing front and John addressed him. “I’m going to let go of you now, IF you promise not to make a run for it.”

“From a moving car? With the security detail following us? Should I consider myself to be in that much danger?”

John wanted to cut down that arrogant snark as quickly as possible. Sherlock was still not in the proper frame of mind, somewhere in the neighborhood of abashed or contrite, for example.

“Considering that there are at least three persons and two government organizations hungry for your blood, I would say yes.”

Sherlock caught the driver’s eyes flicking up to the rearview and he gave him a glare that sent his attention back to the road directly. 

They sat in tense silence until they reached the familiar door, John noting that the knocker was set straight. ‘Oh God,’ he thought, ‘not now.’ The last thing they needed was to try and process the last two hours (had it really only been two hours?) with Mycroft’s looming gravity added to the mix.

One thing at a time. He reached for his wallet, but the cabby held up a fistful of notes and jerked his head towards the car, which had followed them. “The lovely lady has already taken care of it, mate. I’d be happy to hang around a bit, in case you need me again,” he added hopefully.

John shook his head wearily, and said, “No. We are absolutely done for the day. But cheers. And you might think about handing your cv to the lovely lady.” 

The cabby gave him a face-splitting grin. “She already asked.” MI6 was always looking for drivers with nerves of steel. Somebody’d be profiting off the chaos of the day at least, John’s infernal optimism noted, always a silver lining.

Sherlock began whingeing as soon as the cab pulled away. “Can’t we do this somewhere else, John? Mycroft is hardly going to improve the situation.” 

“Unfortunately Sherlock, your gigantic brain has failed once again to act on Newton’s 1st law: to every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. You can’t avoid consequences and facing Mycroft appears to be the first. You actually might prefer facing him over me.”

Sherlock swallowed and wisely said nothing. 

Mrs. Hudson was waiting at the foot of the stairs, hands held up to cup his face. “Sherlock,” she said chastisingly. He dutifully bent his head and allowed her to touch her forehead to his, then lightly kiss his cheek. “You had us all frantic.”

He huffed in frustration. “Completely unnecessary fussing, Mrs. Hudson!”

John grabbed his wrist once again and tugged him forward towards the stairs. John felt him jerk slightly as Mrs. Hudson gave a sharp swat to his bottom and he reached his free hand back to rub away the sting, glaring round at her to no effect. 

“Good luck!” she called out cheerily. “You’ll be needing it.”

John squared his shoulders at the landing and pushed Sherlock through the door to the flat. Mycroft was sitting in Sherlock’s chair, ankle crossed over knee, mobile in hand. 

“Ah, little brother. You didn’t write up any list for me, I assume. Did you enjoy your field trip otherwise?”

“Do shut up, Mycroft. Contrary to your own opinion, wit is not your strong suit. And get out of my chair.”

Mycroft ignored him and addressed John who was making tea with the water that Mrs. Hudson had already boiled. She had left a plate of scones and John, who had skipped lunch as per his agreement with Lestrade, was starving.

“Have you determined the fugitive’s whereabouts during the loss of visual contact, Doctor?”

Sherlock turned from hanging his coat and shouted, “I never left the room! I was in my mind palace.”

John slammed his mug down on the table and shouted back. “Your body, Sherlock! Where was your body?”

Finally showing the dawning realization that he was in fairly serious trouble, Sherlock quailed, then recovered himself to launch into a rapid-fire explanation. “Y-y-you have to understand, John, it had been quiet all day and then those barbaric, hulking proto-humans started clattering and thumping and crashing into the room with radios crackling and shrieking static and I couldn’t think anymore and the wardrobe was within three strides and it was almost time for you to come and I didn’t think I would get lost in the dark in there and then I fell asleep and…”

Mycroft barked out a laugh and stood up, grinning widely in what might have passed for genuine amusement, if not for the unpleasant undertone of schadenfreude at Sherlock’s inevitable comeuppance. He grabbed his umbrella and headed for the door. “As much as I’d love to witness your sentencing and execution, Sherlock, duty calls. Doctor, I would only caution you to remember that justice is a dish best served cold and in the absence of sentiment and that the purpose of punishment is deterrence. Although satisfaction for the aggrieved is an entirely permissible corollary.” 

He turned to Sherlock. “I cannot, nor would I rescue you from this peril and so, good luck, brother mine.” And then he quietly echoed Mrs. Hudson as he closed the door behind him. “You’ll need it.”

“Good riddance, you insufferable prat.” He walked to his chair and dropped.

John had slumped into a kitchen chair and was staring off at nothing. “You were in the wardrobe. Asleep. While we were terrified that you were filling your veins with poison.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth, “It wasn’t intentional."

John held up his hand and Sherlock shut it again. 

John’s mobile chirped with messages, first Molly:

Please don’t hurt him. –MH  
Don’t kill him, at least. –MH

Then Greg:

Don’t kill him. –GL  
I outrank you and I want him alive. —GL

John switched off the phone and picked up a scone. He chewed thoughtfully as Sherlock twitched his foot and played imaginary scales on his thigh, glancing every few seconds at John, who was now glancing occasionally at Sherlock over the rim of his mug. Sherlock watched him talking quietly to himself, “…best served... cold… justice… mercy…” He was not comforted. The longer John ignored him, the twitchier he got. When he couldn’t hold himself still any longer, he stood, tentatively. John said, “Sit.” He sat. After what felt to Sherlock to be an eternal 30 minutes of shifting, shuffling, tapping, and twisting, John finally beckoned him to the table with a single finger. He flew, then waited to be directed. John spoke. “Is there paper and a pen there?” pointing to the table across from him. Sherlock looked and nodded.

“Sit.”

He sat. 

“I know this will be difficult for you, Sherlock, but I don’t want you to speak. At all. Nod your head if you understand me.” 

Sherlock nodded.

“Good. You are going to want to explain, make excuses, defend yourself, deduce me, argue, and I don’t want to hear any of it. There are going to be consequences for what happened today and you have one opportunity to participate in the determination of those consequences and this is it. Nod your head if you are prepared to listen to your options.”

Sherlock nodded somewhat optimistically. Participation was far more than he had hoped for. 

“Option number 1 is to agree to my consequences. Option number 2 is to throw yourself on the mercy of the court, the court being the other unfortunate souls who have made themselves responsible for your safety and well-being, and those are Molly, Greg, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson. Don’t speak,” he said, holding up his hand as Sherlock drew a breath and opened his mouth, “Those are the only options.”

“Let me elaborate a bit. Option number 1 would obligate you to agree in writing to agree unreservedly and in advance to my judgement. If at any point you fail in your cooperation with the consequences I determine to be appropriate, Option number 2 would immediately go into effect. Option number 2…well, I’ll leave you to deduce. Option number 1 would only be effective in preempting Option number 2 if the court determines that the consequences of Option number 1 were appropriate to the severity of the crime, of course. You may now take 30 minutes to consider these options and ask questions, which I will answer if I consider them appropriate and at the end of 30 minutes you will tell me your decision. If you decline to choose, Option 2 will be chosen for you. I will leave the room so you can deliberate.” He ceremonially ticked the timer on his watch.

Sherlock’s hands began flitting and sliding. He began in Gavin-Graham-Glen’s wing (elegantly lettered notice on the left), with files full of cycles of overdoses and withdrawals, evenings spent being held over toilets and nights of sweats and trembling. He looked at the album of Lestrade’s facial expressions: hope, disappointment, fear, punishment and finally delight. Lestrade wouldn’t call him for cases. Lestrade wouldn’t be looking at him in that goofy, pleased way when he showed up, clean, with John by his side. Wouldn’t be any of those ridiculous, proud parental grins when he was brilliant. He wouldn’t be sticking up for him when Donovan and Anderson pretend whispered smugly, “We tried to warn you.” He turned off the light, sad and –what was that sensation? He held his hands up to his cheeks, which felt unusually warm. He’d have to research the assorted physical responses attached to shame, guilt and embarrassment when he had time.

As the door to Mrs. Hudson’s wing opened, his nose was flooded with the smells of his heart: all of her absurd herbal supplements, cakes in every imaginable combination of icing, filling and flavor, roast turkey, shepherd’s pie, warm milk, scones…He heard a distant, “oo-hoo” and slammed it shut, heart pounding, before she could come into view.

His stomach clenched as he dragged himself towards the stairs to Mycroft’s basement. He descended feeling more and more nauseated with each step. He took the keys from the pocket of his virtual Belstaff but leaned his forehead against the door, unable to lift them to the lock. He could not face the rehab rooms, the hallway of homelessness, or the echoing silence.

He turned away and saw Molly crying at the top of the stairs. He shouted for John.

He took one look at Sherlock’s face and said, “Option 1 then.” He sat in the chair next to him and began writing.

“This is only for us. You sign and I will present to the court my guarantee that the matter will be concluded in a manner agreeable to all. Your compliance with the contract will satisfy all parties.” Sherlock looked questioningly at him, but John only said, “You’re going to have to trust me on that. That’s my responsibility.” He waited until Sherlock’s eyes dropped and head nodded.

John signed his name at the bottom of the page with his tightly curled penmanship and handed Sherlock the pen. His signature contained many fewer flourishes than usual. Sherlock started to hand the paper back to John, but he gestured with his chin towards the fireplace. Sherlock walked over and prised the dagger from the Cluedo board pinned against the wall. He folded it and slid it onto the bookshelf between Chemical Analysis of Asiatic Soil Samples and John’s copy of “Top Gear’s Jags and Porsches”. He stabbed the contract deep into the mantel. 

John read aloud as he group-texted.

We will be unavailable for a few days.—JW  
Amends will be made.—JW  
May I pass on assurances of forgiveness?—JW

Molly responded first.  
Don’t be too harsh on him. Of course he’s forgiven.—MH

Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs. “All is forgiven, Sherlock dear. Be brave.”

You sure he’s clean?—GL

100%--JW

Can I still yell? Just to clear the slate.--GL

John phoned him. “If you come now, I’ll let you have at him for five minutes, but it’s only going to work if it’s really over when it’s over.”

“Yeah—I need to get it off my chest. Five minutes, no violence.”

“Course. Truth is, I don’t think he’d be able to get past it if you didn’t. He needs absolution.”

Greg snorted. “Never saw my self as a priest.”

John smiled softly. “Really, Father Greg?”

Lestrade clicked off. 

John glanced at Sherlock, who was looking righteously aggrieved at him. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But it’s only five minutes and you know neither of you will be able to sleep without clearing the air. Besides, he really only wants to--”

“Make sure I’m clean,” Sherlock interrupted in a tone which was discouraged and disgusted at the same time, though it was impossible to tell just exactly with whom he was disgusted. After a few minutes John felt sorry for him and poured him a cup of tea. He pushed it towards him and said, “Go get your milk and sugar. You’re gonna need fortifying.”

When Sherlock came back from the kitchen, a quartered scone was waiting for him. He rolled his eyes, but sat and fueled the transport. 

John knew keeping silent was killing him. “When Greg finishes, you can make your defense, plead your case and ask for mercy, but in the end, Sherlock, they’re going to be my decisions. No arguing, as per the arrangement.” He put his hand over Sherlock’s. “We were so scared,” he said quietly, “and sometimes scared looks like angry. Remember that when Greg gets here.”

On cue, brakes shrieked outside and the door downstairs crashed open. Mrs. Hudson opened her door. “Have a scone, Detective Inspector?” she asked hopefully.

“No you don’t, Mrs. H. I’ll not have you putting me in a better mood before I’ve made my point. Maybe on the way down.”

There were only 9 furious stomps on the stairs. He took them two at a time.

John nodded at Sherlock and he stood up, throwing his shoulders back and clasping his hands behind his back. John approved. Best to face it like a soldier.

A second door crashing open and Lestrade filled the doorway. 

Sherlock made a final attempt to forestall the inevitable, “I’m clean. I swear,” to no effect. Lestrade’s look was enough: he’d heard it all before. He glanced at John who gave permission with a shrug of his shoulder. First he turned around and fished in the pockets of the coat on the back of the door, including the inner breast pocket and the one sewn into the hem. Nothing. Then he walked towards Sherlock with purpose and began his physical examination. He put his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head and John marveled at Greg’s courage and Sherlock’s temerity. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Sherlock so compliant with another person, although he’d never enquired as to the depth and nature of their relationship. Greg tilted Sherlock’s head back and pulled on his upper lids, then down on the lower. Head up again, flashing his nostrils with his standard issue penlight. He flickered it quickly into each eye and Sherlock blinked. He grabbed his left wrist, straightened out his arm, and pulled up the sleeve, checking it for pinpoint blood stains He ran his fingers all the way up and over his inner elbow. He pulled the sleeve down and repeated the procedure on the right arm. He frisked him head to toe, ruffling his hair, searching his pockets. He poked between the toes of his bare feet and when he stood up, fists on his hips, Sherlock began to unbuckle his belt. John interrupted him.

“He’s clean. He’s totally clean. He never left the floor.”

“Do you want me to pee in a glass?” Sherlock asked stoically.

Lestrade took a step back, fists still clenched. 

“What I really want is to chin you, but I’m gonna leave it in your doctor’s hands.” He pointed his finger right at Sherlock’s chin and stared daggers at him, but turned toward John instead.

“Where the hell was he?"

John took a deep breath. "In the wardrobe."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock without speaking. 

He turned back to John and said, "You better make sure he sees the error of his ways. If he doesn’t regret it, we’ll be living through this torture again soon enough.”

John nodded wearily. “I promise you he’ll suffer.”

“I’ll be wanting evidence. Call me if you need backup.”

He turned back to Sherlock and closed the distance he’d put between them, ratcheting back up the tension in the room, but he merely grabbed Sherlock in a crushing hug and muttered in his ear, “Day 47. Good on you, you nerve-racking little prick.”

He slammed the door shut on his way out, crashing down the stairs and yelling for Mrs. Hudson.

“Your boy’s in one piece, I didn’t break him. Can I tuck in now?”

She called up the stairs, just to be sure. “You all right, Sherlock dear?”

Sherlock slumped in relief and collapsed into his chair. “I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson,” he yelled back. Then more quietly, “Superb.” 

John asked, “More tea?” but Sherlock shook his head.

“I’d rather just get on with the sentencing.”

John nodded. “All right then. I haven’t worked out all the details yet, but close enough to start. Feels like a month has gone, but it’s still Wednesday. Consider yourself grounded through Sunday. Loss of all privileges.”

Sherlock grimaced. Four days would be the longest penalty period since he and John had agreed on the system that kept Sherlock responsible for his behavior. Grounded meant 30 minutes of fresh air and early bedtime each day. He would have to sit down, (or stand, more likely) for 3 formal meals a day, rather than the one John insisted on. Lost privileges meant no violin, internet, microscope or any other experimenting. He would be bored to madness. Most painful of all was no sex and no release. It felt almost cruel. A year ago such a theoretical deprivation of carnal indulgences would have been meaningless, but since John had awakened him to the pleasures of the flesh, its loss was grievous. It wasn’t that they hadn’t gone hands off for that long a period of time. Sherlock, in the middle of a case, was a virtual monk, forgoing food and sleep, least of all sex. It was the absence of even the possibility of physical intimacy that was punishing. Thinking about what he might be missing hurt. It added to the burden to know that John would be suffering also, despite his innocence. As John had explained it to him, the loss of that physical connection was a concrete reminder of the damage Sherlock did to a relationship when he failed to consider the effects of his behavior on others. The punishments John devised helped reestablish the connections. In this particular case, John said, “Molly and Mrs. Hudson will be right chuffed to see you fattened up a little and well rested and you’ll be eager and relieved to get back to your hobbies. It’ll make Mrs. Hudson happy to see you happy and make her shifts easier next week.” Sherlock sighed deeply. He acknowledged the suitability and nodded.

“In addition, spanking every night, enough that you’ll be sleeping on your front for a week. That’s for Greg. He’ll recognize the signs.”

Sherlock groaned and dropped his head into his hands. Greg had been the first and only one able to rescue him from his habit, back in the days when there was serious fear he might actually succeed in killing himself. He had stumbled upon the method in a fit of desperate frustration after Sherlock had disappeared for a 3-day bender. He’d been young enough at the time to be taken over Greg’s knee and the pain and humiliation of it had served its purpose. The mere threat of a repeat had kept Sherlock clean for a year and a half. It was still effective, although John was now the administrator. (It was no consolation that they’d discovered recreational spanking to be an enjoyable activity for both of them.) Sherlock would have to avoid sitting and Greg would be able to tell that he was sore from a mile off. He would take great satisfaction sharing the secret knowledge with John and Mrs. Hudson. He’d tease without mercy and John would try not to grin while Sherlock blushed furiously to the confusion of everyone not in on the joke. Even the Belstaff could not shield him from the indignity.

“Mycroft will be aware of all of it whether we like it or not and he’ll be sure to let you know. That will be satisfaction enough for him.”

Sherlock groaned again. It would be excruciating.

John said, “Finally—“ and Sherlock looked up in disbelief. 

“More?” 

John started again, without responding, “Finally, you’ll be needing something to keep you occupied for the duration, so you’ll write--by hand—500 word letters of apology to the five of us. No boilerplates. Individualized. We all care for you in our own specific ways and I want you to think about the effects your behavior has on each of us.” John paused to let the weight of the consequences sink in, then asked if he had any questions. 

Sherlock knew the answer, but he asked anyway, in what John thought of as his little voice. “Will you forgive me?” John stood up and held his arms open. Sherlock went to him slowly and curled his arms around him. John took his hand and led him to the sofa. He pulled the gangly beanpole down onto his lap and Sherlock curled up with his impossibly lanky arms wrapped around John’s neck, laying his head down on his shoulder. John kissed his forehead and stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. 

“Always,” he whispered and held him until they both fell asleep. 

John wondered if he would ever learn to avoid falling asleep on the sofa when he woke an hour later, stiff and cranky. He ruffled the curls again and said, “Up you get, titch.” Sherlock sprawled onto the sofa off his lap, stretching and moaning. John said, “Time for dinner. Come and keep me company while I survey the fridge. Or would you rather have takeaway?” He knew it would be hard enough for Sherlock to sit for 3 meals a day. He’d let him determine the menu.

Sherlock shook his head as the memory of his current status returned. “Why are you being nice to me? I’m in disgrace.”

John smiled. “You’re being punished, Sherlock, not shunned. I still love you. And I want to help you through this. I tried to have it make sense, not be just, I don’t know, random suffering.”

“I know, I know. I haven’t argued, have I?” Sherlock heard the guilt John was trying to outrun. “You were very just. And it all makes perfect sense. I’d be happy to avoid all of it of course, but I’m willing to accept it. I hope it will sink in. I…”

He trailed off. John froze, hoping he’d continue. “Go on.”

The little voice returned. “I don’t like scaring everyone. Having everyone angry at me. You being disappointed in me.” His voice broke and he turned his head into John’s neck, grabbing his jumper. John clutched him closer.

“Shh. It’s ok. We’ll be ok. We’ll figure it out together. This was just a bump in the road. Look how well you’re doing.” 

John pointed at the large wall calendar they’d hung over the desk. Sherlock had scoffed at the gold stars John had insisted on using to mark each clean day but John knew better. When he thought John wasn’t looking, he ran his fingers over them, one by one. “We’ve got all the time in the world. Now. Leftovers or a nice curry? I’m starving.”

They settled on curry and although Sherlock stalled brilliantly, he ate a plateful, and a few teaspoons of coconut rice pudding. They cleaned up together and Sherlock started to fidget. John knew he’d ordinarily be reaching for his violin or laptop. He checked the time and said. “You’ve got a couple of hours before the…” He stumbled then recovered, “we get ready for bed. You could start one of your letters.” Sherlock let his head drop back and stared at the ceiling. “Sooner begun, sooner done?” he said encouragingly. Sherlock dragged himself dramatically to the desk and made a production of paper rustling and pen seeking. John schooled his expression, which threatened to break into full-on smiling. “Who’s first?” he asked. 

Sherlock said, “Graham, then Mycroft. If I don’t start them while I’m still able to sit down, I’m afraid they will contain no sincerity whatsoever.”

John smiled then, despite his best effort, and snorted out a laugh, which he tried to disguise as a cough. Sherlock scowled sideways at him, but didn’t respond. John picked up his novel, deciding against the potential irritation of the telly and quiet descended for an hour. He assumed that 500 words would be four or five pages of Sherlock’s sprawling script and when he checked, he saw that Sherlock was about halfway there by 10. 

John walked over and put his hand on his shoulder. He was tempted to take a peek, but Sherlock stood and handed over the pages freely. “Time to get ready, I assume?” John squeezed his shoulder and said, “Take a shower and I’ll read this, although maybe I shouldn’t. Will your remorse soften me? Weaken my resolve?” 

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at him and quoted his elder brother. “Is that sentiment talking?”

John gave him a preliminary smack on his bottom and shoved him toward the loo.

“Be quick about it. I’ll be waiting. And wear your pyjamas. I’ll not have you distracting me with your naked perfection.” 

Sherlock snapped his fingers. “Foiled again. You’re too clever for me, Doctor Watson.”

John glanced over the letter. He’d started with Greg’s. The insults regarding Sherlock’s ability to disappear from a locked room in the beating heart of New Scotland Yard, were sprinkled thinly throughout and would have to be expunged, but the apologetic tone was surprisingly sincere. Sherlock understood the distress he had caused and had clearly considered the nuances of the connections he shared with Greg. 

Sherlock was quick and John almost wished he’d been a little slower. He usually assigned Sherlock some corner time before a spanking, to still the great mental machine and help focus his attention on the reasons for the upcoming punishment. The anticipation increased the anxiety as well and was an additional aspect of the punishment itself. This time John knew that Sherlock was already in the proper frame of mind, after the extensive discussions they’d had and the heartfelt words in the letter. John felt he was more in need of the focusing himself. He headed for the shower when Sherlock finished. 

This was a far more elaborate set of consequences than he’d ever had to impose before. Of course, it was a more serious breach of trust and the potential repercussions of the failure of the dissuasive aspect of the punishment were unbearable to contemplate. But would it destroy the delicate balance they had built between themselves as lovers? Sherlock needed John’s firm presence and stability. He held him safely at anchor and transfused his self-control into Sherlock’s bloodstream as needed. Would Sherlock resent him for serving as an external boundary on his internal demons? He was childish, but he was not a child. Did he need a parent regardless? John had taken on aspects of the role. Mycroft, certainly. Father Greg had thought he needed it at one time. John had never asked if their relationship had crossed categories. He’d suspected so, based on the level of trust Sherlock placed in Lestrade. It hadn’t broken their bond, just changed its nature. John liked what they had established between themselves. Could it bear up? 

They had worked out a protocol for these session based on both of their experiences in formal settings, John in the Army and Sherlock at public school and after conferring with Ella. Her single most helpful clarification was that relationships were not meant to be fair, they’re meant to work. So far things were working. John had discovered that the stoicism and mental control that enabled Sherlock to survive the far too many bouts of actual physical torture he’d suffered were counterproductive to effective domestic discipline. Sherlock could detach himself from extreme physical pain and the first few attempts to bring him to a place of remorse failed miserably. A purely physical punishment did not affect his thinking or his heart and he considered it a victory to withstand John’s best efforts. They ended with both of them feeling more frustrated than when they started, with no resolution and no purpose served. 

When John realized that Sherlock did not understand the concept of catharsis, he changed tactics for one last try. He talked to Sherlock while he was spanking him, trying to help him understand what exactly he had done wrong and why he should feel bad about it. The breakthrough came after a 10 minute spanking that barely reddened Sherlock’s bottom. He had casually thrown an insult at Mrs. Hudson, that had cut her to the quick. 

John started by asking him if he he’d made Mrs. Hudson cry.

“Obviously,” he answered in his usual sarcastic manner.

“5 for tone.” 5 smacks.

“Answer respectfully. Did you make Mrs. Hudson cry?”

“Yes, sir,” just this side of snark.

12 smacks.

“Two for tone. Why was she crying?”

Sherlock was silent. 10 more smacks.

“Why was she crying, Sherlock?”

“She can cry at will.”

This was undoubtedly accurate, but incorrect in this particular instance. 

It was like spanking an attorney for the defense.

10 smacks and Sherlock inhaled sharply, starting to shift on John’s lap. 

“Why was she crying this time?”

“I…I…don’t know. People cry.” Sherlock’s breath started to catch in his throat. Target acquired.

10 more smacks.

“Why do they cry?”

“Because they’re sad.” His voice broke.

5 more, a little less forcefully now.

“You have permission to deduce now. How did Mrs. Hudson feel?” John had forbidden Sherlock from deducing during spankings. It took him away from the immediacy of the experience.

“She was sad.” And now he was definitely crying. John was amazed. He had gone at Sherlock’s bum for half an hour last time, caned him once, and his respiration had never changed. 

He was very gentle with the next 5 and asked very softly, “Why? Why did she feel sad, Sherlock?”

“Because I was mean to her.” His heart broke and he wept. “I hurt her, John.” John pulled him upright and Sherlock clutched him like a drowning man.

“It was my fault,” he choked out, the tears dripping onto John’s jumper as he stroked Sherlock’s hair and tried to soothe him. “I made her cry,” he stuttered and gasped, “even though she’s always only ever been kind to me.”

John made shushing noises.

“She loves me and I was mean to her.”

“It’s going to be all right, love.”

“No! It’s not. I’m an awful person. How can anyone love me?” Great wracking sobs.

John hardened his voice a bit and said, “But we do. We do love you. We love you even when you’re a dick.”

Sherlock looked up at John, eyes red and streaming, his nose dripping, a complete mess. He struggled to catch his breath and John heard the little voice for the first time.

“You do?”

John pushed the sweaty curls away from his forehead and kissed him tenderly. 

“Of course we do. And you’re going to learn how to be less mean to the people who love you. Because being mean hurts you too, even if you’ve ignored it before. You feel bad about it now, don’t you?” John had discovered that unlike the ordinary humans, that feel bad until they cry, Sherlock had to cry before he felt bad, hence the effectiveness of spankings. The mortification split a hairline crack in his façade and then the physical pain allowed the emotions to bubble up and out. 

“Yes,” he cried pitifully, “I feel bad and I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t said it. I feel sorry.” He sounded a bit surprised. Realization came over his face. “I don’t ever want to make her feel bad again. Or you, John.” He clutched again and John pulled him close, whispering in his ear.

“That’s what this is about Sherlock. Helping you figure out what it means to love the people who love you. This crying? Feeling sorry and this resolving to do better? That’s catharsis. When you calm down, you’re going to feel so much better. Lighter and easier.” Sherlock looked back at him again with a quietly disbelieving look on his face and John felt himself tearing up and chuckling at the same time.

“Yes, believe it or not, you’re going to want to go and apologize to Mrs. Hudson, instead of feeling like it’s some meaningless chore I’ve given you to do.” Sherlock nodded quickly.

“And both of us are going to forgive you, and it will be over. You’ll start over and try to do your best and we’ll help you. Because we love you. She loves you and I love you.” Much quiet crying was followed by a trip to bed, where Sherlock slept for an unprecedented 10 hours. 

They came in time to view punishment as a kind of a reset button and it was usually followed by weeks and sometimes months of peace on Baker Street.


	3. Up the Creek, with a Paddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John administers the first spanking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank all of you who have commented so far. It's beyond encouraging. Most of all, a humongous, ginormous, crate-load of thanks to tiaoconnell for her above and beyond support. And being a beta! All hail tiaoconnell!

John was startled out of his reverie when the shower started to run cold. Time to stop thinking. He had a record breaking speed-wank to be sure his body wouldn’t be confused about the purpose of the evening’s main event. This was not going to be spanking as foreplay. He didn’t want to run the risk of undermining Sherlock’s punishment with his own arousal. The man could sense weakness like a shark could sense blood in the water. John couldn’t afford to send him any mixed messages. He toweled off and put on a sturdy, sober pair of pyjamas. He grabbed a flannel and to further clarify the boundaries, he brought a straight-backed chair into the bedroom with him. Starting off on the bed was too ambiguous.

Sherlock was sitting there, waiting for him and John asked, “Are you ready?” He paused a moment before answering, “Yes, sir,” in a low, steady, voice. John set the chair so that Sherlock would be able to rest his torso on the bed, while his long legs hung off John’s lap. He sat down and Sherlock came around to stand in front of him in his dressing gown and pyjama bottoms.

“All right then. Five people who love you, afraid for your safety. Five spankings. We’ll use paddle to start, maybe the slipper, or spoon, but we’ll see, depending on how your arse bears up.” Punishment spankings were administered by paddle, but five in a row was uncharted territory and they’d have to play it by ear. He wanted Sherlock sore, not injured. “Tonight is for Greg, so please get the paddle.” Sherlock sighed deeply but retrieved it from the bureau drawer and handed it over. They had picked it out together, after Sherlock confessed that a hand-spanking didn’t always help focus his attention on improving his behavior. It was broad, black rubber, not quite stiff, with a wooden handle, so that it could be used to sting or to bruise, allowing John to vary his strokes according to Sherlock’s reactions.

Sherlock moved to kneel in front of him, but John stopped him. “I have one question, before we start, and I’d like to know the truth. It won’t change anything, either way.” Sherlock gnawed on his lower lip, then nodded his head. “Were you really trying to escape the room? Or were you pleased with your cleverness?”

Sherlock dropped his eyes under John’s calm gaze. “Both. I was bored, but then I was getting anxious, worried that you wouldn’t be on time, when they all barged in. I started to feel… frantic. They were so loud and they were staring at me and Lestrade was ignoring them. I kept looking at him, to try and get his attention, but he was on the phone. I was thinking that for all their bluster and arrogance about being detectives,” he spit out the word in disgust, “I could disappear from right under their noses and they wouldn’t even notice, Lestrade included. Idiots! The wardrobe was right there. And I was… pleased… at the thought of showing him up,” he admitted. Quietly he continued, “In front of everyone. But then I really did fall asleep and I…don’t think…I’d like to think I would have answered if I’d heard everyone calling for me.”

John could imagine the scene. Sherlock would have been anxious and overwhelmed; disappointed in Greg not being able to read his mind. Those emotions would have been much too uncomfortable. Better to get angry and feel clever. It felt like a realistic scenario to John. Sherlock had been woken up early to hear bad news and he could have been tired. Or just relieved to be in the dark and away from the racket. John nodded and said, “Thank you for being honest. It will help us figure out how to keep things like that from happening again. Now…”

Sherlock knelt down and lowered his pyjama bottoms. He stretched his upper body across John’s lap, his head on the bed, hands tucked underneath his chest. His hips were centered between John’s open knees, his arse tilted up at just the right angle. John lifted the bottom of Sherlock’s blue robe, exposing the glow of his perfect, round bottom. He was so pointy in most places, it made the contrast so much more exquisite. John had to steel himself against the desire to rub his stubble over the smooth, satiny skin. Strictly business, he reminded himself. 

John asked, “Why are you being punished, Sherlock?” 

“I misbehaved.”

John swung the paddle across both cheeks and the sound startled both of them: an echo of the rubber meeting flesh that bounced around the room. The color sprang up immediately, a bright pink imprint, staining the milky white.

“What did you do?” 

“I hid from Lestrade.” Hitch in his breath.

Five smacks across both cheeks.

“Why was Lestrade watching you?”

“To keep me from using again.” Another five and a few stuttering breaths.

And so it continued, John interspersing questions with spanks from the paddle that noisily punctuated his words. He worked Sherlock through a timeline of the events again, this time highlighting his choices, their results, and the alternate paths he might have taken. When he began to review Sherlock’s history with Lestrade, the defenses began to come down. His bum had gone past pink and was red by now. Sherlock had begun to grunt and squirm after each swat. John steadied him with a palm on his back. 

“Who found you after your 17th birthday overdose, when the temperature was below zero?”

“Lestrade.” Five smacks on the left. He moved his arms up and buried his face in them. John could see the muscles in his arms trembling.

“What had you taken?

“Dirty heroin.” Five on the right “Ow, shit!” He hissed under his breath.

“Where were you?”

“I was…under the Tower Bridge.” Seven smacks fell quickly on his left cheek, popping loudly against his skin and he was breathing like a runner.

“Two for hedging. Be specific Sherlock, where were your legs?” 

“Sorry, sorry, please, in the river, I was halfway in the river!” His shoulders were now curled tightly and shaking.

Five more on the sit spot and Sherlock started to kick his feet, trying to stay quiet but unable to stop himself from crying out after each blow, “Shit, huh, hunh, ah, aah. 

John hoped he would crack open soon. He didn’t want to bruise him on the first night.

“Were you breathing?”

“Not very much…” His shoulders were shaking and the sound coming from him was constant now, a whimpering he couldn’t disguise. John gave him five more smacks just where the tops of his thighs creased. Time for yes and no questions. Sherlock couldn’t spare the breath for long answers anymore.

“Did he save your life, get you breathing again?"

“Y-y-yes.” Five in the same spot.

“Did he try to stop the bleeding from your head with his bare hands, even though, for all he knew, you were using dirty needles?”

Sherlock could only nod furiously now, he was truly crying, trying to wipe his face with his forearms. Five taps just for effect.

“He did that because he loves you, doesn’t he?”

More nodding. John put the paddle down and laid his hand gently on the heated skin.

“And when he couldn’t find you this afternoon, what was he thinking?”

The dam that held back Sherlock’s sentiment burst. He heaved noisily, weeping in heartfelt remorse. John rubbed his back, saying nothing, not wanting to interrupt the moment of clarity. When the crying was less harsh, John pulled him back and helped him turn and perch on his legs. He leaned back in the chair so that there was room for Sherlock to rest his head on John’s shoulder. He took the flannel from his pocket and turned Sherlock’s face to wipe the tears and mucus off his face. Sherlock pushed his hand away but John grasped his chin and drove the lesson home.

“You scared him, Sherlock. He was afraid of losing you. How could he stand to know that he was responsible for letting you slip away? It would have finished him, you know that, right?”

The crying flared up. Sherlock nodded, and hid his face again. 

“Hiding was selfish and may have seemed funny from your point of view, but from Greg’s perspective it was potentially devastating.” He tried again to wipe his face, but Sherlock was too deep in his misery to worry about a messy face. He wasn’t even trying to protect his arse from the pressure of John’s lap. Sherlock wouldn’t feel that pain until he had processed the emotional pain. John let him cry himself out. He was anticipating his own aching muscles from the unusual exercise, so, eventually, he manoeuvred Sherlock into standing up. He helped him step out of his bottoms and pulled him to the side of the bed. He held his hand while he pulled the duvet and sheets down and drew the dressing gown off his shoulders. Sherlock was swaying on his feet and John turned him so he could kneel on the mattress and lower himself with assistance to lie flat on his front. He was still taking shaky breaths but seemed stable, so John said, “I’m going to get the gel, all right? I’ll just be a moment.” 

Sherlock wasn’t ready and although he’d deny it, he whined, “Not yet. Stay with me a little bit?” John wanted to soothe his skin before the burn set in, but if Sherlock was feeling so vulnerable, John didn’t want to leave him alone. He walked around to the other side of the bed and slid in. Sherlock immediately turned over onto his side and pressed himself up against John, throwing his arm around him, his face tucked into his chest. John ran his hand up and down the back of Sherlock’s neck and scratched his scalp, sliding his fingers through his hair, which was damp and tangled. He murmured nonsense and made calming noises until Sherlock was breathing regularly. After a while he complained, “It hurts.” John untangled himself.

“It’s supposed to. Now let me get the gel.”

Sherlock’s brain reengaged. 

“If it’s supposed to hurt, why do you try to make it feel better?”

John got up and headed to the medicine chest. 

“Would you rather I didn’t?”

Sherlock answered quickly, “No, no, I didn’t mean that. It’s just seems counterproductive.”

John smiled to himself. 

“I was the judge and executioner before. Now I’m your doctor. And when the punishment is over, it’s over. That’s the catharsis part, silly.” He took the jar from the medicine chest and was back on his side of the bed. If Sherlock hadn’t been grounded, John would have straddled him and let the soothing and stroking take its course toward reconciliation sex, but he wasn’t going to soften. Or harden, as it were. He slid in next to Sherlock and pulled his shoulder down so he was on his front again. John lifted the bottom of his robe and sighed. Sherlock’s bum was pink, bright red in a few spots where the paddle had doubled over. “I recommend you keep your reservations about minimizing the effects of punishment to yourself this go round. You’re going to need all the help you can get.”

Sherlock reached around behind him and felt his arse gingerly, flinching at the heat and sting.

“You did a thorough job as usual, Captain.”

“Oi! Captain’s on leave till Monday.” said John and he poked Sherlock in the ribs with a single finger. The honorific “Captain” was reserved for playtime and John would not let Sherlock change the mood. “Keep your mind out of the gutter. You’re in disgrace, remember.” Sherlock stuffed his face into his pillow and John heard an indistinct, “Sorry, sir.”

John unscrewed the top of the jar and took a hefty scoop of the cooling gel onto his fingers. He dropped a dollop on one cheek and started to spread what remained onto the other. Sherlock jerked his head around from the pillow at the first touch and looked over his shoulder to give John a reproachful look. 

“Save it. You know you earned it.” John continued to rub gently, eliciting peevish sounds when he hit a particularly sensitive spot. “Sorry, love, but it will help. Are you cold? I don’t think you're going to enjoy covering up your bottom. When I finish I’ll get you a shirt.”

“I think my arse will keep me warm all by itself. You’re going to stay, right?” he asked in his little voice. “To keep me warm, I mean,” he added hurriedly.

John gave him a little pinch on one of the less tender looking areas. 

“Ow! What was that for?”

“For not trusting me. I told you, once the punishment is over, it’s over. I’m not leaving you to suffer alone. I’m not going to tolerate anything that will undermine your grounding, but I’ll cuddle you and snuggle you as much as you like.”

Sherlock scowled at him, but a blush rose under his lovely cheekbones. He claimed to hate that “puerile, infantilizing, drivel,” but he sucked it up like a desert flower. John knew Sherlock would never get enough of it. He loved watching him open up, soften and relax in the warmth and affection John lavished him with. And he loved teasing him about it.

As far as the grounding was concerned, now that he’d seen the effects, he had no worries about Sherlock forgetting the nature of the paddling. He wouldn’t be forgetting about it for a while. 

John continued to work on his bum and when he finished he put the gel in the drawer of the night table and got Sherlock the promised shirt. He slid it over his head and helped him straighten it out in front. “Sure you won’t be cold, love?” Sherlock grunted something and John grabbed a novel from the bedside table and arranged himself, head on a pillow, leaning against the headboard. As soon as he was horizontal, Sherlock threw an arm and a leg over him, sliding over to get as much contact as he could. John pulled his head farther up on his chest and wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s neck so that he could hold the book with both hands. Sherlock was snoring softly in two minutes. Poor thing, thought John. We’ve only just started. John read until his head started to nod, perhaps half an hour more and joined him in sleep.


	4. Hudson's Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spankings proceed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to tiaoconnell for being a spectacular beta and for her moral support!

When John’s eyes flew open at his regular time, Sherlock was still latched on, though he was on his side now. John detached himself, brushed his teeth and went to boil the kettle. He’d need something to keep up his strength till Sherlock was ready for a formal meal. He didn’t want to let him sleep too long. It would interfere with the early bedtime that was on the schedule. He munched on one of the scones that was left from the day before and rummaged in the fridge. Milk and eggs. Thank God. He didn’t want to run to the shop and have Sherlock wake up alone. He was going to be very fragile and dependent until this was all over and John didn’t want to leave without letting him know. He chopped up some leftover bits of onion and tomato, cutting out the brown spots, and mixed the egg and milk for an omelet. He took a quick look at the blog, then went to wake Sherlock. John massaged his shoulders and neck until he stirred.

“Rise and shine, gorgeous. It’s Day 48, quite a milestone, don’t you think?”

“Go away.”

“Is that any way to speak to the man who’s making you breakfast? Come on, you lazy git, wake up.”

Sherlock rolled over unconsciously and cried out as his rear hit the mattress. “Why are you waking me up to face my misery? Let me sleep. My arse hurts.”

“I know it does, but if you get up you can have something to eat and you can take a paracetemol to help manage the soreness.”

“Soreness? That’s a woefully inadequate description. It’s killing me! Even when it’s not touching anything!”

John had to admit it was spectacularly colored and while he was sympathetic, this was a man who wore the scars of Serbian brutality on his back, who had been stabbed, shot, and knocked unconscious countless times. He rolled his eyes just a little and said, in a singsong whisper, just loud enough to be heard, “Drama queen.”

Sherlock ignored him and continued to complain. “I hate breakfast. And I won’t even be able to sit through it.” He started to move himself gingerly onto all fours and John quickly looked away, not wanting to risk the temptation of the sight of Sherlock on all fours, naked below the waist, perfectly round, pink cheeks... Right. He retrieved the dressing gown from the floor and as Sherlock backed off the bed and put his feet on the floor, John slid the robe onto his shoulders. Sherlock hissed when the silky material slid against his aching rear.

John hated to do it, but he insisted on a pair of pants. “I can’t have you flashing your bits at me all day. You’re going to test my will power enough as it is.” He helped Sherlock step into the lightest satiny pair that they kept especially for just such occasions; Sherlock still gripped John’s shoulders tightly when they settled on his skin.

“I’m going to make the eggs and toast, so go brush your teeth. It will be ready in a minute.”

He walked to the door, and turned to watch Sherlock make his awkward way to the loo. He’d have to refresh the ointment for him after breakfast.

John’s omelet, toast, jam, and coffee were all on the table. He’d laid a place for Sherlock at the side table where he could stand comfortably, and although the discretion was appreciated, it couldn’t keep a lovely blush from rising up from his throat and onto his cheeks when he walked through the sliding doors. “Oh, God.” He covered his face in embarrassment. John rubbed his shoulder as he passed by and said, “Never mind, it’s just me.”

“This can’t really be considered a formal meal if only one of us is sitting at the table,” Sherlock protested.

John replied agreeably, “You’re right. We’ll have to revise our terms in future. Designated meals? Standard? Traditional? You choose.”

Sherlock was far less agreeable. “Oh, shut up, John.”

John ducked his head down to hide his smile and tucked into his eggs. 

Sherlock dawdled and picked at his breakfast, but John was satisfied with half of the omelet, tomatoes extricated and piled neatly on the side of the plate and ¾ of a slice of toast. He wanted to get more of the ointment onto to his rear and check to see that any bruising was minor and wouldn’t require a cold pack.

“Come on back to the bedroom. I want to do some maintenance on you. It’ll be easier if you’re lying flat.” Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled into the bedroom and laid down on the duvet. He rested his hands on his folded arms. “You can lower your pants for me.”

In a sulk, Sherlock said, “Hurts too much. You do it.”

John let the tone go unremarked. He bustled about and brought two tablets, a glass of water, a cool, wet flannel, and the jar of ointment to the bedside. He sat on the edge.

“Lift up,” he said, using his finger to raise Sherlock’s chin. He waited for him to open his mouth and placed the pills on his tongue. He held the glass of water to his lips and let him take a few gulps to help the pain reliever go down. Sherlock hated taking pills. He swore he could taste them and follow their course all the way down his throat and into his stomach. John was pleased he hadn’t fussed. Either he was looking forward to the relief or he was feeling compliant. “Good boy.” Sherlock gave a barely detectable wriggle at the praise. John made a mental note to be complimentary today. Sherlock could use some building up. Now for the pants. He raised the dressing gown and grabbed the waistband. 

“You’re going to have to help me a little bit love. I don’t want to scrape the cloth against any part of you. Front or back.” The sliding of the slippery cloth would not help him through the 4-day drought he was facing. Since it had been awakened, Sherlock’s libido was on a hair trigger. He lifted his hips and grabbed the front of the pants and John stretched the back. Between the two of them, they managed to maneuver them down with no contact. 

Upon revelation of the bum, John said, “Hmm. This color is very flattering on you. I think I’ll look for a scarf for you in just this shade.”

Sherlock responded, drily. “You have deluded yourself if you think that your pathetic attempts at humour can lift my mood. I assure you, they do not help.”

John kissed him lightly on his shoulder blade. “You might be holding on a little too tightly to your dignity, darling. You’re going to have to lighten up a bit if you’re going to get through this.”

He scooped up some of the ointment and began to work it into Sherlock’s rear. When he tensed up at the first touch, John put his hand on the small of his back, trying to soothe him a bit. It helped and Sherlock breathed deeply and started to relax. He let out a couple of groans but John couldn’t tell if they indicated pain or pleasure. He steadily moved his fingers in circular patterns moving from right to left and shifting as necessary to cover all the colored areas. He spent extra time on his sit spots, which were, to be honest, leaning more towards red than pink. He made a mental note to avoid them during the next go-round. “Do you think you could tolerate a cold pack?” he asked. There was no answer and John heard the even breathing that meant that Sherlock had fallen back to sleep again. John kissed him in the dip between his back and hip and left him to pass the time free of pain. The more time he was sleeping during this period, the easier it would be for both of them. 

He enjoyed a blissful few hours of quiet, reading the papers and working on the blog. He edited the letter to Lestrade a little more thoroughly, but overall was pleased by the portions that weren’t snarky or condescending. The insults seemed pro forma rather than intentionally hurtful. “In my defense, I was inadequately supervised.” “My transgressions might prove beneficial at a later date, incorporated into a training activity to improve surveillance protocols, for example.” Lestrade would expect nothing less.

The lull was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson’s singing, “Ooh-hoo,” as she came up the stairs. John checked his watch. It was lunchtime. He put the papers aside and met her at the door, to relieve her of whatever nourishment she had brought; sandwich makings from a leftover roast. John’s mouth watered. Sherlock emerged from the bedroom, his hair deliciously tousled and his sheet wrapped around him. He yawned. “Must you be so cheery, Mrs. Hudson?” he asked disgustedly.

She answered, her brightness undiminished, “Are you cranky, Sherlock dear? It always takes a while for you to wake up, doesn’t it?”

She joined John in the kitchen, working on the sandwiches and he asked, “Would you like to join us Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock widened his eyes at him, but to his relief, she said, “Oh no. In fact I’m heading to my sister’s for the weekend.” She flashed a knowing look at Sherlock. “I know you boys are going to be…busy…and…well, you know, sometimes you need a little privacy.” John turned to enjoy the blush he knew would be creeping up Sherlock’s cheeks. So pretty against the whiteness of the sheets. Sherlock ignored them both, attempting to maintain his poise to no effect.

She kept on. “How are you feeling, Sherlock? I’ll just set a place for you here,” pointing to the side table. She lowered her voice conspiratorially, “You’ll be more comfortable.” Sherlock covered his eyes with his hand and abandoned the pretense. John tried to hide his own face by paying surgical-level attention to the spreading of butter. 

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I will be standing for the foreseeable future, thank you for your consideration.” He walked with as much self-respect as he could muster to the table but as he passed her, she gave him a swat and said firmly, “That’s for worrying me to death, young man. I’m not as young as I used to be and you can’t be trying my nerves like that anymore.”

Sherlock reached behind with one hand and said, “Ow! Completely redundant and unnecessary, Mrs. Hudson! John will be exacting revenge on your behalf this evening, I assure you!”

She addressed herself to John next. “Well, I’ve taken a bit for myself, John, so show a little mercy, will you?” She headed for the door and John called after her, “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“There’s a chicken in the fridge for this evening. I’ll be back when things have calmed down.”

Sherlock dropped his sheet and planted his elbows on the table, holding his cheeks in his hands. “Is all of London sharing in my humiliation?”

John put the kettle on and brought Sherlock his plate. He patted his shoulder and said soothingly, “Only the citizens who matter, love.” While they were eating, John remembered his intention to boost Sherlock’s morale. “I read your letter to Greg,” he said, conversationally. “You were honest and apologetic, without fawning. You did a very nice job.”

All he got in return was “Hmm,” but John saw the ghost of a smile flicker across his face and knew he was pleased. He ate the entire sandwich, minus the crusts. Even helped with the washing up, without a word spoken. John thought, Mission accomplished. Sherlock was as addicted to praise and admiration as he had been to coke and heroin. John was happy to feed that habit. Most of the time he deserved it anyway. 

Time to ease him back into his consequences. “How about we get ready for a walk?”

Sherlock walked to the window and checked the sky. “Can’t we wait until dark? The fewer people on the streets the better.”

John considered. “I’d rather you get your fresh air during the day, Sherlock. The sunlight might help you adjust to an earlier bedtime. Melatonin, you know.”

“Doctor.” Sherlock said it like a dirty word.

“We could walk over to Angelo’s and pick up a lasagna we could heat up for supper. Save Mrs. Hudson’s chicken for tomorrow.”

Sherlock reserved judgement. John wheedled. “If we call him, he’ll have some of your special tiramisu ready for you.” Angelo had a secret recipe for tiramisu that he only made for Christmas and Sherlock. John reminded him of it whenever he’d gotten himself into fasting mode and needed to be shocked out of it. It would work as an incentive as well. 

Sherlock feigned great reluctance. “If you insist. At least it we can pretend there’s a purpose to your insistence on unnecessary promenading.” 

John smiled and said, “There’s my snarky boy back again. I was starting to miss him. Silly me. Do you need help getting dressed?”

He sighed. “Probably.”

They walked together into the bedroom and John opened the wardrobe doors. “I’m thinking… sweat pants?” Sherlock snorted. “Pyjama bottoms?” 

Sherlock muttered, “Humiliating.”

John closed the doors and said, “Let’s see what you have up in the undercover closet.” They climbed the stairs to what used to be John’s bedroom and Sherlock perked up a bit. He did enjoy his role-playing. He flung open the doors of the closet with relish. John watched him with pleasure. “Didn’t you have a set of coveralls for “The Poisonous Paint?” Sherlock had posed as a house painter to prove that a newly widowed film starlet had grown tired of waiting for a second, ancient husband to die of natural causes. Sherlock spent a week flirting and persuading her that he was only painting houses until his true artistic talent was recognized. And when she was convinced that it was true love, she had revealed the nature of the paint, which she had tampered with, adding peanut oil to trigger anaphylactic shock in the naïve elderly man. 

Sherlock hunted and emptied several boxes onto the floor and finally came up triumphantly with a splattered set of white coveralls that he would positively swim in. Contact with his skin would be minimized. 

“Before you decide to go without pants, how thick is the weave? I suggest you hold them up against the window to check their transparency.”

Sherlock did so and they agreed that they could be trusted to shield him from public almost-nudity. As he pulled them over his bare arse, John had to turn away and remind himself that the drought was in effect for three more nights. “Sherlock, if you’re ever at a loss for an appropriate birthday or Christmas gift for me, I’d be quite happy to take you on a naked coverall walk.”

Sherlock looked seductively over his shoulder as he zipped them up and lowered his voice an octave. “I will keep that in mind, Doctor.” John’s cock twitched and he forced himself to think of Mycroft. 

He left Sherlock to finish his preparations and called Angelo who was, of course, thrilled to make up Sherlock’s dessert. He begged them to eat in but John explained that tonight was impossible but they’d make a reservation for two weekends from now (just to make sure that Sherlock would be able to sit when the time came.) Sherlock had John check him against the sunlight outside the front door and he gave the all clear. Sherlock set the pace, and they meandered towards Angelo’s. John paid attention to his gait and Sherlock was definitely moving stiffly. John wanted badly to reach out and hold his hand, but Sherlock kept his hands in his pockets. John couldn’t tell if he was doing so to keep the fabric from chafing against his bum or from rubbing against his free-swinging equipment. He licked his lips. “How bad is it, sweetheart?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “Somewhere between gunshot wound and Serbian torture chamber.” John turned to look at him, but Sherlock was grinning wickedly at him. “Stop worrying, Doctor. My prognosis is excellent.” John punched his shoulder gently. “Berk.” 

When they reached the restaurant, Angelo was as ebullient as ever and tried once again to convince them to stay for the meal, but Sherlock reiterated John’s assertion. “I’m not at my best, Angelo. We’ll make it up to you, weekend after next?” He looked at John, who confirmed. “You can put yourself out as much as you like then.” 

Angelo was solicitous. “You’re not sick, Sherlock? Let me make up some of Mama’s meatball soup, it will fix anything. Cured my nonna on her deathbed with the flu.”

“No, no, Angelo, not that kind of sick, just a little…sore. Too much painting,” he said indicating the coveralls.

Angelo frowned at John. “You let him do the work by himself?”

In order to cut off what he was sure would be a pathetic attempt by John to needle him, Sherlock immediately replied, “Oh, he did more than his fair share, I assure you. In fact I’d prefer he not help at all in the future.” He looked daggers sideways at John, who would not be deterred.

“He brings it on himself, Angelo. You know him, he’s so stubborn. Wants to do everything his own way, doesn’t know when to quit.”

Angelo slid his eyes between them, trying to figure out what wasn’t being said, but gave it up and changed the topic. “Okay then, two weeks, Saturday night. Best table in the house, candles, wine, no, champagne…” They left as he was making his plans, John carrying the bags so Sherlock could keep his hands in his pockets. The trip home was a bit quicker since Sherlock had worked out some of the stiffness, but he was still walking like a sailor. Or a cowboy? 

When they got home, John puttered in the kitchen, cutting up the chicken and making some tea. Sherlock was lying face down on the sofa. John brought the meal to him and put it on a folding tray. “Kneel up and lean on the back of the sofa. It won’t be the same as sitting, but at least you won’t be standing.” The arrangement worked well enough, but Sherlock ate only enough to satisfy John’s quota. He said, “Fancy a nap? You slept late, but I’m knackered,” but Sherlock shook his head. “Time for Mrs. Hudson’s letter. He went to the desk, retrieved the note pad and pen and returned to the sofa to write, lying on his belly. John waited for a while to make sure he was settled, then said, “I’ll go for a lie down then, if you’ll be alright.”

“I’m hardly going to combust spontaneously, John, and I’m too sore to wreak any havoc. I’ll be fine. Besides, you’re going to be needing your strength for this evening’s entertainment,” he added glumly.

John kissed the top of his head on his way to the bedroom and slept through to late afternoon. He entered upon an unusual sight in the sitting room. Sherlock was standing at his music stand and making notes on sheet music, holding an invisible violin. Humming. Sherlock Holmes was humming. He was deeply engaged and startled when John asked, “What are you doing?”

Sherlock looked slightly nervous. “I, uh, didn’t want to wake you to ask if you would consider this an experiment, but I’m trying to write some music without actually hearing it. A melody came to me and I didn’t want to lose it, but…grounded, no violin, oh, you know…. It won’t be the same, but I was curious to see if I could capture it without actually hearing it. Is that…I mean, it’s not actually a real scientific…more of a musical exercise, if you think about it…”

John walked over and put his arms around Sherlock’s waist. He tilted his head up to place a chaste kiss on his lips. “It would be tragic for the world to lose a melody of yours, love, and I think it was an elegant solution to the dilemma. Can’t wait to hear it. And good for you figuring out a way to keep from getting bored. I might just shorten the drought by an hour for that.” John felt the tension leave Sherlock’s body as he turned his head away, trying to hide his pleasure at the praise to no avail. John pulled him back and gave him another kiss. “How much work did you get work done on the letter?”

“Ugh. It’s agonizing. That’s an excruciating torture.” 

John leaned back from the hug and raised his eyebrows at him.

“And I’m NOT complaining, I’m describing. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather deprive me of sleep? The Serbians—“

John pointed his finger at him. “Not another word, or I’ll add back the hour I so magnanimously deleted a moment ago. And depriving you of sleep is like trying to drown a fish. No wonder they couldn’t break you down.” He lowered his hands to Sherlock’s arse and gave a two-handed squeeze, causing Sherlock to whine and push his hips up against John’s. He stepped away quickly. The electricity between them was immediate. “If they’d known all they needed to do was redden your bottom, you’d have given up all of Mycroft’s secrets and brought the British Empire to its knees.” 

Sherlock was reaching round behind him trying to ease the sting and color was rising on his cheeks. 

John watched admiringly for a few seconds and then toughened up his eyes. “Now, get busy. I’m going to work on the blog.”

Sherlock retrieved his notepad, which John could see, had several pages filled already, despite the “not complaining.” They settled down to work for a few quiet hours, broken only by occasional shifting and groaning when Sherlock tried to find a more comfortable position. He kept at it quite dutifully until, with a great flourish, he tore the filled pages off the notepad and presented them to John. 

“There-satisfied?”

John said, “Five pages, looks about right. I’ll have to read it of course.”

“Unnecessary John. Mrs. Hudson is not nearly as sensitive as Graham. She’ll be overcome with emotion at my apparent sincerity.”

“I’m the judge, remember? I’ll judge your sincerity. And if it’s merely apparent sincerity, it won’t do at all.” He started to read. Sherlock stood in front of him expectantly. John looked up at him and said, “It’s going to take me a little while, Sherlock. Find something to do.” 

“I’m not allowed to do anything! There’s nothing to do.”

John sighed, and put aside the letter. He started to tick off on his fingers. “You could clean under the sink where those gelatinous compounds leaked, you could scrub the beakers where you were storing spider venom, you could sort the fingernails into an actual useable collection or you could try the diversions of us ordinary mortals and read a book or watch telly. ” Sherlock gave him a scathing look. 

John said, “Or you could start on the next letter.”

Sherlock turned away in disgust. 

“Or you could flounce around, sighing dramatically if you’d like.” 

Another scathing look. He made his way upstairs and shortly John heard him thumping around in the costume boxes. That was a worthwhile pastime. They could use sorting. You never knew when you’d need to go all fancy dress for a case on short notice. The easier it was to find your kit, the faster you’d be undercover. He tried to resist the urge to check on him, reasoning that Sherlock knew he was in enough trouble already, he wouldn’t be pushing any limits. 

John finished editing Mrs. Hudson’s letter, which he had to admit, was very sweet, although there was a air of “Silly woman, you ought to know better than worry about me,” but Sherlock was right. She would be very pleased, John knew. Unlike the consulting detective, she was very susceptible to sentiment. He stood up, stretched and decided somebody ought to take care of the gelatinous compounds under the sink, before they mutated. Although John had made doing chores part of punishments before, this time, he suspected Sherlock would be too sore to be able to do any activity that would be rigorous enough to actually clean any of his Chernobyl-level toxic waste sites. John gathered the surgical scrubs, gloves, mask, scraper, scrub brush and bleach and went to work. By the time he finished with the green slime, he was famished. The orange, blue and purple would have to wait till tomorrow. He double bagged everything and took it down to the bin, noting it would be a good excuse for tomorrow’s walk, having to stop at Tesco for replacements. He called up the stairs when he finished, “Sherlock, I’m jumping in the shower. Then dinner.” A bit not good, preparing food without washing away any potentially poisonous residue. He waited for a response, got none, and tried again. “Sherlock.” Nothing. “Sherlock!” He started up the stairs, with an extra weight in his step and was rewarded with a grunt. “Didn’t you hear me?” 

“Obviously—your bellow is impossible to ignore, though God knows I try.”

John growled to himself. “Shut it, you pillock.” Then, “Just get ready for dinner.” Another grunt. 

John had a lovely wank in the shower. He set a scene for those coveralls, imagining Sherlock as the victim of a spanking that left him just pink enough that his wool trousers would be unbearably itchy and pants would be out of the question. He would slide Sherlock’s robe off his shoulders leaving him standing all white and pearly in front and walk around to see him all rosy in the rear. He would admire for a moment, rubbing his palm over the lump in his trousers and retrieve the coveralls from the bed, where they were laid out. He would slide his hand across Sherlock’s arse as he walked back and Sherlock would pull away instinctually at first, but then push back into the touch, seeking more of the sensual pain/pleasure sending confusing signals between his brain, bum and bollocks. John would walk around in front of him and take Sherlock’s hands and put them on his shoulders, to help him keep his balance. 

As John knelt down, he would kiss a path down his front from the hollow of his throat, over his sternum, the wispy hair above his navel and down the top of his cock, which would no longer be considered flaccid. Sherlock would grip his shoulders, having tilted backwards at the attention John was paying his growing erection. Sherlock’s breathing would be faster now, his eyes wide and fixated on John’s. He would hold the right leg of the trousers out for Sherlock to step into and then the left. He would stand up slowly, letting the rough fabric drag over the sensitized skin of thighs, hips and groin, Sherlock twitching and gripping John’s shoulders for dear life. He would let the upper half of the garment catch on the sore swell of his buttocks and Sherlock would gasp, thrusting his hips forward and colliding with John’s. 

John would trap the coveralls between them in front, sliding up and down against Sherlock a little and driving up his own respiration rate. He would let go of the coveralls then, and use his hands to spread over Sherlock’s arse and cup the curves of him so that they filled his broad hands. He would spend a minute or two, grinding and groping, maybe even dipping between the cheeks for a visit, just long enough to draw out some lovely whimpering sounds that he could catch directly from Sherlock’s mouth. Then he would help Sherlock find the sleeves of the garment so he could slide his arms into them. He would draw it up to cover his back. In his mind, John slid his hands from Sherlock’s shoulders, dipping his thumbs into the valleys adjacent to his collarbones. He envisioned himself brushing over his nipples then returning, with a little more pressure, then giving them something between a squeeze and a pinch. Sherlock would suck in air and jerk his head down to look in surprise at his own body’s response and the sounds he made. In the shower, John echoed the whoosh of Sherlock’s imaginary breath, and his cock jerked at the image: Sherlock, staring down in shocked confusion and admiration at how John played his body the way he, himself, played his violin. John thought, ‘I do that to him. He didn’t know what his body could do, what was possible, because I’m the only one who can do it for him.’ He stroked himself faster, trying to keep his grunting as quiet as he could.

In his mind’s eye he slid his hands over Sherlock’s ribs and in circles on his concave belly, rising and falling quickly, with shallow breaths now. His fingers would reach the tops of his thighs and his thumbs would find the grooves separating his hipbones from the muscles at the top of each leg. He would allow his thumbs to trace the crease slowly inwards on his body, without brushing his swollen cock. Sherlock would shift his hips to try and make contact, but John would be precise and careful, with his surgically trained hands, and Sherlock would groan in frustration. Eventually, the progress of his left hand would be impeded by the diagonal zipper of the coveralls. He would be forced to move both of his hands to Sherlock’s left leg, sliding his fingertips down the well-defined muscles of his calf. When he reached the bottom of the zipper, he would take it between two fingers and start to lay slow, wet kisses on every centimeter of skin, before the zipper sealed it away from his lips. Sherlock would moan again when the trail reached the inside of his knee. John would wonder when that particular spot had become such a particularly erogenous zone until he saw himself realizing that the top of his head and his newly cut hair was tickling up against Sherlock’s bollocks. He chuckled at himself then watched as he gently turned his face back and forth against Sherlock’s inner thigh so that his hair tickled the underside of his reddened cock. He saw Sherlock reaching down to lift John’s chin so that his lips would drag up against the velvety skin and then brush over the leaking crown. 

John gripped himself tighter and dropped his head so the water beat down on the back of his neck. One, two, three pulls and the orgasm roared over him like the unheard vibrations of a jet engine. The shudder shook him from the center of his body outward, to the tips of every nerve ending. He choked back a groan and huffed, trying to remain silent, but Sherlock knocked on the door in some sort of evil, telepathic synchronicity. John could have sworn he hadn’t made a sound that could have travelled past the shower curtain, but he knew that somehow, Sherlock had divined that John was attaining satisfaction (of a sort) without him. 

“If you’re quite finished fantasising over my coveralls and excluding me from the marital benefits to which I am legally entitled, I’d like to have a piss.” 

John’s huffing turned into a choking laugh and, panting, he said, “I’m not being punished, you prat. There’s no reason I should be deprived. You ought be grateful I’m being so thoughtful, trying not to tease you with my desire.” Sherlock entered the bathroom, and whispered, with every intention of being heard, “You flatter yourself.” He finished, flushed, and turned the hot water on full blast. John knew he had only seconds before the shower ran ice cold. He rinsed himself frantically of the newly dispersed bodily fluids and shut off the tap quickly. “Looking for revenge, are you?”

Sherlock smiled to himself and John reached out a hand from behind the shower curtain and gave him a pinch on his bum. Sherlock twisted away from the fingers, crying “Ow! Must you?” John stepped out of the shower and dried himself from head to foot with a towel. “Sometimes, you leave me no choice, Sherlock. And sometimes I think you like it.” He reached out and slid his fingers feather-light across Sherlock’s tender skin, feeling him skitter his hips away in fear that John might pinch him again, then move back to increase the pressure. It was a move remarkably similar to that of the virtual Sherlock’s and John smiled congratulating himself that his fantasy approached film verite.

“Shouldn’t you be fixing dinner, instead of torturing me?”

John said, “All we need to do is pop the trays into the microwave. I still need to get dressed. You can do it.” He cut off Sherlock’s protest, “NOT as a punishment, just to keep you from getting bored while you wait for me to get dressed.”

“Mmm.” 

John went and got dressed, rubbing a little liniment into his shoulders beforehand. They would be getting more of a workout this evening and he didn’t want to stiffen up. When he got downstairs, he was surprised to see his place at the table set formally with a placemat, linen napkin, good silver and wineglass. There was even a single candlestick right in front of the fine china plate that had been part of a wedding gift from one of Sherlock’s more clueless relatives. John gazed at him with a pleased look on his face, but Sherlock, brushed it away, looking down and trying to cover his embarrassment. “You were taking too long and I didn’t have anything else to do.” After a moment he looked up, slightly worried. “I wasn’t trying to make it romantic or anything. Just trying to be…” 

John walked over to him and pulled his head down to plant a kiss on his forehead. “I think it’s very sweet. Thank you.” Sherlock kissed him back with a shy hug and they companionably heated up the lasagna, poured the wine, and served themselves. It was divine. Sherlock ate what John considered to be a full portion and he watched him enjoy his entire tiramisu with abandon. Staring at him lick the spoon with a broad, swiping tongue, John regretted, again, the drought that would last until Sunday night. Sherlock swiped the inside of the container with his finger to scoop up every last bit of cream, and licked up from the base, humming as he sucked the last of it from the tip. John shook his head roughly to clear it of the filthy images flickering across his internal screen and cleared the table. 

Sherlock binned the trash and started to wander around the kitchen aimlessly. “What am I supposed to do now? I can’t play the violin, I can’t use my laptop.”

John answered him, “Well I’m going to watch telly. I recorded an old movie I’ve been wanting to rewatch. It’s been a month already. Come sit, or, uh, lay down, with me. You can predict all the plot points because I’ve already seen it.”  
John sat at the end of the sofa and Sherlock laid down on his side with his head in John’s lap. John played with his curls, pulling them gently and watching them coil themselves back into place, as tight as they were before. They reminded him of the spring toy he’d had as a child. Sherlock shouted at the more unbelievable plot elements and John laughed, agreed with him, or told him to sod off as necessary, and two hours went by in what felt like a couple of minutes. The movie was over and they sat in the glow of the pleasure of each other’s company until John checked his watch and sighed. He nudged the head resting on his thigh. 

Sherlock said, “It’s time, isn’t it.” It wasn’t actually a question. John scratched his fingernails against his scalp a little bit.

“’Fraid so, love. Go brush your teeth and then I want you to do 20 minutes of corner time. Hands behind your neck and no mind palace. Tonight is for Mrs. Hudson, so concentrate on her. I’ll be asking you’ve what you’ve thought about, so make a mental list. I’ll be in the bedroom when you’ve finished.”

Sherlock looked up at him and opened his mouth to argue, but John merely quirked an eyebrow at him and he closed his mouth and sucked in his lips. He bit down on them to keep in the words that were threatening to push themselves out. He eased himself off the sofa sideways to avoid any pressure on his rear and dragged himself to the loo. John watched his back, pleased at his compliance and self-control. When he heard that he had finished in the bathroom, John took his turn and changed into thick joggers for the event. 

Sherlock was lying on the bed with his chin propped up on his folded hands. John looked at him with surprise. 

Sherlock looked back, guilt-free and bold as brass. “I tried, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it without you in the room and I didn’t want to pretend. I could have, but I didn’t.” He got up and walked right to the corner and linked his fingers behind his neck. “I can do it now.” He turned around and gave John a very different, vulnerable and pleading look. In his little voice, he said, “You won’t leave, will you?” John wanted to honor the revealing question, so he thought carefully and then said, “Let me get a flannel and some water and then we’ll have everything we’re going to need.” Sherlock lowered his hands and followed John with his eyes as he left. 

When he returned, John took his seat and nodded at Sherlock who replaced his hands and faced the corner. John said, “I’m starting the timer now.” Sherlock’s shoulders settled. He needed two reminders, when John could tell from a subtle change in his posture, that he had left the present moment and gone off into his mind palace, but for the rest of the time, he was focused. When the timer went off, John gave him a quiet, “Well done.” Sherlock tried to hide a proud little smile, and John gestured him over. Sherlock approached determinedly and asked if he could get a pillow to muffle his head, but John said no. “I need to be able to hear you and I think you should hear yourself. I don’t want you running away inside somewhere.”

Sherlock pouted a bit, but dropped his boxers and stepped out of them. John closed his eyes while Sherlock knelt and then arranged himself across John’s lap making sure that his penis was centered strategically to avoid any contact with John’s thighs. John reminded himself to keep his mind on the business end of things, then opened his eyes to examine Sherlock’s bum with as much professional distance as he could muster. Shouldn’t be any complaints about his technique. There was an overall pink to the skin and some slight bruising across the sit spots. Sherlock hadn’t been exaggerating his discomfort. He was definitely sore, and the skin probably felt like he had a mild sunburn. John ran his fingers over it and Sherlock gave a little whine, but since John couldn’t tell if it was from pain or arousal, he lifted his hand as if the skin had burned him. He cleared his throat and asked, “Are you ready?” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Right, then. Why are you being punished?” John gave him five light smacks with his hand across the center of his bottom and heard Sherlock suck in a quick breath.

“I misbehaved.” Five more on his right cheek, a little harder this time. Sherlock wriggled and John laid a hand on his lower back to steady him.

“What did you do?” 

They ran through the litany of questions and answers and Sherlock flinched and squirmed through a spanking that under ordinary circumstances, he might not have even noticed. But with his bum already tingling and as the dialogue became more intimate, he began to hear the cracks in Sherlock’s voice.

“And what did Mrs. Hudson do?”

“Sh-sh-she came home early from her game.” He spanked and Sherlock whimpered.

“Why did she do that?”

“Because you asked her to look for me.”

John increased the force of the next round, putting his shoulder into it and Sherlock’s agitation increased.

“That’s not exactly why Sherlock.” Five spanks on each side, starting just below the line of his hips, with each following spank moving lower on the cheek. 

“Ow, ow, that hurts, John, ow.”

“Now, why did she interrupt her only afternoon off?” Another five randomly placed.

Frantic squirming and John had to grab Sherlock around the waist to keep him from sliding off his lap.

Sherlock gasped out, “Aah, aah, that hurts! Because you told her I was missing. Because she was worried.”

“Worried?” A flurry of solid blows on the curved bottom of his cheeks, John’s favorite spots for nibbling. He raised his voice. “Worried? Is that the most accurate word?” Sherlock grabbed the sheets and twisted them.

“No, no, no, sorry, she was frightened, sorry, ow, ow, she was afraid.”

A little softer now, with five more stinging slaps. “And what was she frightened about?”

John saw Sherlock swipe quickly at his eyes and knew he was reaching his breakthrough point. He was having a little trouble catching his breath and the balls of his feet were bouncing up and down off the floor.

“That I’d gone back, because she’s seen me…” He mumbled something that John couldn’t make out. A series of quick, sharp blows, all at the rising crest and alternated on each side. He lowered his pitch and said, “Speak up Sherlock. You ought to be ashamed of your behavior, but you need to say it out loud.” John kept the up the barrage, lighter than before but steady now, with no relief.

“She’s seen me at my worst.” Stuttering breaths. “She was there when I was at the bottom and she never left my side. She knows how bad it can get.” He was crying now and having trouble speaking. The words could barely make their way out through the tears. “She took me in when nobody else would, after even Mycroft…” The words were interrupted and then drowned in great choking sobs. Sherlock folded his arms under his face and wept. John rubbed his back until Sherlock’s body sagged and there was no tension left in him. He said, “Come here, love,” and drew him up so he could wrap his arms around him and pull his head onto his shoulder. Sherlock clutched at John’s neck and John stroked his heaving shoulders. When he had quieted down some, John reached for the flannel and tilted his shoulder so that he could see Sherlock’s face. He wiped away the tears but Sherlock grabbed it away from him and gave his face a rough scrub. He took several deep shuddering breaths and John combed his fingers through his hair. “You’re alright now. I’ve got you,” and pressed Sherlock’s head back onto his shoulder. He picked up a bottle of water and took a sip for himself and then held it so that Sherlock could drink. He drained it. 

John just held him just like that for a while, until his shoulder went numb and he worried that Sherlock might actually fall asleep in that position. He repeated, “You’re alright now. You’re going to be fine. Come have a lie down on the bed, and I’ll take care of you.” Sherlock lifted his head and looked blearily at John, then turned so he could put his feet on the floor. John stood up after him and tugged him toward the head of the bed. He gave him a slight push onto the mattress and Sherlock went to his hands and knees and collapsed, sprawled diagonally. John grabbed the flannel and wrung it out in a bowl of water. “I’m going to try to cool you off a little bit.” He laid it gently across his bum and Sherlock startled off the bed, hissing at the sting. “Sorry, it will feel better in a moment.” Sherlock settled again and John rubbed circles into Sherlock’s lower back until he felt that the coolness had gone out of the flannel and he repeated the procedure until Sherlock was tolerating the contact. On this night, John used aloe gel to cool the sting, less concerned about bruising. 

Eventually the gel dried and Sherlock whispered “Thank you.” He was breathing calmly and John knew that his work was done. And a good thing too, because he was wrecked, and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed himself. He nudged Sherlock over and laid down flat on his back. Sherlock immediately flung his arm and leg over him. John worked one arm under Sherlock’s neck and took his hand with the other. He held it up against his chest and they were asleep in seconds.


	5. Breaking Precedent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 of Sherlock's grounding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to my new bestie, tiaoconnell, who in addition to brilliant beta services and suggestions, has been supportive and motivating, above and beyond. You're a gift.
> 
> (For those of you who might be disappointed, there's no spanking this chapter. But don't worry...)

**Friday**

Day 3 of grounding was more of the same. For a man who hated to go to bed, Sherlock hated to get out of it. John finally woke him with a kiss for Day 49. After a meagre but acceptable breakfast, Sherlock wrote his letter to Molly, a bit more reserved than the others. Their past was more painful and unresolved, and although time had helped to heal the wounds, they were raw enough to require less probing of the past. Sherlock fell short on the word count, but John let it slide to preserve the present equilibrium.

They carved up Mrs. Hudson’s chicken for lunch and dinner and walked to Tesco for cleaning supplies, milk, and Sunday’s meals. Mrs. Hudson called to check in on them and scold John about being too rough on Sherlock. They bickered for a few minutes.  She was the indulgent grandmother to John’s stern father figure. “Surely he’s been punished enough. After all, he didn’t do anything so terribly self-destructive. Technically, he didn’t leave the room at all. To be fair, we all probably over-reacted.”

“Mrs. Hudson, I know he’s your boy, but you know he knew what he was doing. There’s a difference between sympathy and indulgence. Tell me you weren’t worried at all. Tell me your heart wasn’t racing. You can’t fool me.”

Sounding offended, she said, “Of course I was worried, John. What are you thinking? You can’t imagine how many nights I spent waiting up for him, wearing a hole in the floor, pacing back and forth, worried to death, the Detective Inspector and I, him not showing up. Every gray hair on my head is from that scoundrel. Doesn’t mean we can’t show him forgiveness, give him a little bit of a pass. Please?”

John could see her tilting her chin down, pouting a bit. He rubbled his forehead, then set his lips, determined. “I can’t have you undermining me, Mrs. Hudson. It’s hard enough staying firm with him. If you’d like to take over again, you’re more—“

“Oh, no you don’t, Doctor Watson. I’m too old for that anymore. No, you do what you need to do, I suppose. Doesn’t mean I won’t stick up for him, though.”

He smiled fondly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s lucky to have you.”

“Nonsense. We’re all lucky he has you. Can I talk to him if it won’t undermine you?”

He heard the chiding and said, “Stop that now. Course you can.”

  
She told Sherlock to be brave, it would all be over soon, and he rolled his eyes and indulged her, pleased despite his best attempts to mock her sentiment. “Mrs. Hudson, surely, you don’t think a little corporal punishment is going to do me damage.”

She didn’t take any guff. “It’s not your bum, I’d worry about if I were you, young man. It’s your ego. Now go behave yourself properly and I’ll see you Monday.”

Lestrade texted, the big softy, “Beat his arse, but don’t crush his spirit. I need him clever on Monday.” John was happy to pass on the message along and give Sherlock something to look forward to. It perked him up and cheered John as well.

Even Mycroft  tried to help. He emailed a little financial puzzle to John to pass on to Sherlock, apparently aware that he didn’t have access to his own phone for a while. (How _did_ he know that? John wondered, then decided it was better not to.) It was something about the niece of a diplomat, a boyfriend and disappearing micro-electronic surveillance devices and it gave Sherlock a pleasant 2-hour diversion, although he passed it on his belly, on the floor with documents spread round him like a scattered deck of cards. Occasionally he would rise and pin something to the wall. He climbed gingerly onto the sofa once and lay with his fingers tented, but he couldn’t manage it. It was too uncomfortable and he paced instead.

The orange gelatinous slime was niggling away at the back of John’s mind and although he was savouring the temporary tranquility, duty called. He gowned up and attacked the viscous compounds, wondering if he oughtn’t get a permit for their disposal. He came to his senses. _Fuck it. Would probably cost a week’s wages. I’ll bring it to Bart’s in a biohazards bin._ At Mycroft’s suggestion, he kept a few stashed in the flat after “The Case of the Anthrax Alibi.” They’d come in very handy for stashing all kinds of dodgy things. He actually got through the orange and the purple before Sherlock yelled, “Oh, of course,” at the top of his lungs. He reached habitually for the mobile that would ordinarily have been in his pocket, then looked sheepishly at John.

“May I borrow yours?” John considered but decided against it. No need to give him the opportunity to get into more trouble.

Via John, Sherlock explained that it was the boyfriend’s gambling debts that had opened him up to the extortion of a Russian mob operative and the niece’s careless generosity with her credit card and something about the security panels of the casinos and John lost the thread. Sherlock expressed his gratitude to Mycroft with some insults about the incompetence of MI6, to which Mycroft responded graciously, fluent in Sherlock’s dialect of misdirection. Could it be he was indulging in sentiment regarding his brother’s current suffering? John left the idea alone, knowing the dynamics between the brothers surpassed the comprehension of mere mortals.

Molly sent a long email, which John saved to read during Sherlock’s corner time. A decent dinner, Sherlock did some virtual composing, John read journal articles and then crap telly till bedtime. Showers and then the corner again, hands on head this time. John had to keep things unpredictable, otherwise Sherlock would become habituated to the ritual and distance himself from it. John sat with him while he did the time, reading Molly’s email and when it was up, John called him over.

“Time’s up love. Come and kneel by me. Tonight’s punishment is for Molly, and she has a…request, shall we say?”

Sherlock groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Is there no end to my debasement?”

John went to him and took his hands down from his face. He pulled him over by the chair, where he pushed him down onto his knees. Sherlock grimaced when his bum met the backs of his calves, but he adjusted himself and settled into the most comfortable position he could find, head bent and staring at the floor.

John called his name softly. He waited for a moment but Sherlock wouldn’t raise his head. John’s tone grew stern. “Sherlock…” No response. He hardened his voice, “Look at me." John pulled his chin up but Sherlock slid his eyes sideways. Frustrated, John said, “This is your last warning.”

Sherlock finally met John’s gaze. He somehow looked very small. A fist gripped John’s heart but he tried not to let it show. “You know no one is trying to debase you. That’s exactly what Molly was afraid of. So listen.”

 

John,

I know Sherlock would be mortified to hear this from me directly, and I don’t want him to feel any worse than he does. Or than he needs to, anyway. I’m sure he’s telling you you’re torturing, but of course, he’s already been through the real thing and survived. A great man can withstand torture, if he thinks it will save someone else. But torture changes you against your will. It breeds hatred. Please help him understand that we’re trying to help him change himself, to want to change, to turn him into a good man. He’s already changed so much. You don’t really understand how much, and I don’t think he does either. Everyone else can see it, though.

He’s been afraid of being close to people, He hasn’t known how to have friends as long as I’ve known him and the way Mycroft talks about it, his whole life. I imagine he’s distanced himself to be safe from people who couldn’t know him and understand who he is. Tell him he’s safe now. Tell him we love him for who he is and that he can let us in now because we don’t want to control him. If he loves us, he’ll control himself because he knows it will make us happy and make us closer. It’s kind of a miracle that he wants to be closer now.

Can you explain to him that we want him to be a good man for us? That it doesn’t matter if he disappoints us? We’re all human, we all wind up disappointing each other. What matters is that he doesn’t _want_ to disappoint us. Or to scare us. Or leave us again.

Anyway, you’ll figure out what to tell him. He’ll listen to you.

And thanks for saving him for us. 

 

When John looked up from the laptop, Sherlock’s head was down again and John had to tilt his chin up. When he did, he saw red eyes and tears running down getting caught on those ridiculous cheekbones. He felt his own eyes fill. He took Sherlock’s jaw in his hands and swiped his thumbs up and across his cheeks. He reached for his hands and pulled him up onto his lap. Sherlock turned his face into John’s shoulder and John felt him crying in earnest. He ran one hand up and down his back and the other cradled his head until he had finished.

John whispered in his ear. “That’s enough for tonight love. You’ve had your catharsis. Leave it to Molly to figure out how to do it without a single blow. Come to bed.”

“No spanking?” The little voice.

“No need. Thank Molly when you see her.” Sherlock took a deep shuddering sigh and carefully maneuvered himself off John’s lap. In a slightly nervous voice he asked, “Are you still going to…take care of my…me?”  almost as if he weren’t sure it was worth a reprieve from spanking if it meant he wouldn’t be cuddled afterwards.

John pulled his head down and kissed his forehead. He wiped his face with the flannel and said, “Of course I am. Git. Now lay down.” The bruising on Sherlock’s arse had faded and the doctor in John regretted having to bring it back up tomorrow, but was pleased that his ministrations had succeeded. Sherlock didn’t react as strongly to the application of the gel and sighed in contentment. Or as close as he could get with a sore arse and two more spankings to go.

John crawled over him and threw an arm and leg over and they fell asleep.

 

**Saturday**

John woke up alone. He could tell it was late morning by the light coming through the window and was puzzled. On a lie-in morning, Sherlock would usually lay wrapped around him as long as he’d allow it, until John pried his tentacles off. Sometimes it would take two or three tries, as Sherlock would sneak a limb back around him before he could detach another. Even more surprising was the smell of eggs and bacon coming from the kitchen. It wasn’t Christmas, or any other holiday he knew of. Ah. It came to him. Day 50. He was absurdly pleased to think that Sherlock would celebrate in a way that John would appreciate. Maybe the plan was working. Brilliant Molly. He dressed quickly, ignoring his usual morning erection by focusing on the smells of breakfast.

“Good morning, Sunshine. Happy anniversary.”

Sherlock gave him an obligatory scowl to disguise his shy smile. John came up behind him to give him a hug, from the waist up, trying to maintain a safe distance between their hips.

“Is that a stethoscope in your pocket, doctor, or are you just happy to see me?”

“Smart mouth for a man with a smarting arse,” and he gave him a pinch, just to see him flinch. “If you behave yourself, I’ll let you play with my stethoscope this evening.” Sherlock turned around, spatula in hand and proudly displayed the admirable tent in his black silk boxers. He growled in a register that made the teaspoons rattle. “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.” John understandably lost focus for a moment, staring at the impressive display and licking his bottom lip. He couldn’t stop himself from cupping Sherlock’s bollocks and running his cupped hand up the rigid length. Sherlock’s head dropped back with a moan and he dropped the spatula, jarring both of them out of their lust-driven stupor. John stepped back and shook his head. In a hoarse whisper he said, “I’m going to take a shower.” Time for another wank. He turned back once and hollered, pointing his finger at him. “And don’t interrupt me this time. Or I’ll…do something.” He fled.

Sherlock shouted in frustration, “Not fair!” and John called back, “Only two more days! Think of Mycroft.”

John decidedly did _not_ think of Mycroft in the shower. The sight of Sherlock’s arousal in the kitchen was a trigger for one of John’s favorite memories: the night they broke the table….  

It  had started as a romantic Friday night dinner that Sherlock had picked up from Angelo’s after deducing that John had had a miserable, mucus-filled shift at the surgery. It warmed John’s heart to see the fire and candles lit, the table laid, the smell of the eggplant parmesan drifting through the flat. (It was the one vegetable dish, besides the thing with peas, that Sherlock would eat. John and Angelo insisted on using the Italian, Melanzane alla Parmigiana, because neither of them were convinced that Sherlock actually knew it was a vegetable dish.) The wine was open and flowing and the sexual tension built deliciously all through the meal.

As John started on his panna cotta, Sherlock stood to pick up the plates and John asked him, “No dessert for you?” Sherlock said, “I’ll have something later. You finish eating.” He cleared the dishes from the table and John stood to join him for the washing up, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He said, “Stay there. I’m still hungry.” He proved his point by leaning over him with a ravenous look. He kissed him, sliding his tongue right into John’s mouth. It was the kiss of a starving man and it sucked the breath out of both of them. Once John was gasping, Sherlock pushed the chair away from the table with John’s help. He slipped gracefully to his knees in front of him and laid his hands on the top of John’s thighs. He stroked them up and down, looking up from under his lashes and scraping his lower lip with his teeth.

Through clenched jaw, John said, “Christ. You’re a menace.” His legs dropped open and he grabbed the seat of the chair. Leaning towards him, Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose, taking in the smell of him: the lingering scent of his own expensive cedarwood body wash (stolen), the sweat of the days work, the sharp medical smell of alcohol and underneath, the man’s musky arousal. His cheeks rubbed back and forth and up and down, encouraging the increasing pressure in his trousers.

He undid the button and caught the zipper of his flies in his teeth, pulling it down, then kissing the exposed areas with “that brilliant fucking mouth of yours,” John helpfully pointed out. The commentary drew a sound from Sherlock: whine? Whimper? Bravely, he carried on by sliding his hands underneath John’s widened legs and squeezing the cheeks of his arse, kneading and pinching just shy of leaving bruises. He teased him through his pants, licking and nipping until they were damp with all sorts of bodily fluids. He caught the fabric between his lips and pulled back a little, letting it snap back when he let go. Sherlock made obscene noises and blew soft breaths up and down the length of him, shaft and bollocks, the cool air raising goose-bumps all over John and loosening his death-grip on the seat.

John grabbed his head and gasped, “Bloody hell, Sherlock. You haven’t even touched me yet.” Sherlock could feel John trembling with desire by now and he grinned smugly, inordinately pleased with himself. He sucked on the cloth where it was soaked through, and said, “Delicious. Better than tiramisu.”

John was breathing heavily and he rose up a bit to let Sherlock slide the pants and trousers off him. When he was uncovered, Sherlock smiled and said, “Ice lolly for dessert.” He licked all the way around under the crown as and took him in his hand. John watched his tongue as it set fire to his skin and then left it, so that it cooled as Sherlock’s exhaled. “It’s dripping. I don’t want to let any go to waste.” He stared at the reddening shaft, mesmerized, anticipating the raw pleasure of taking it into his mouth. He had to swallow the saliva that was threatening to leak from between his lips.

John’s head dropped back and he slumped lower in the chair.

“Should I hurry? Do you think it will melt?” He frowned up at John and said, “Actually, you look like you’re melting. I’d better hurry.” John looked back at him, sighing out a groan. His mouth watering again, Sherlock licked his lips, pursed them, and pushed the foreskin down, exposing the glans. He slid his mouth halfway down then drew his tongue back up along the underside. Pulling off, he kissed the weeping hole. His tongue flicked out and lapped up the fluid delicately.

“So good.” He flattened his tongue and gave a flat lick over the whole head. He hummed and sucked on the crown.

The temptation to grip Sherlock’s hair and shove his head down caused John’s arm’s to tremble. He hissed in frustration. Sherlock rumbled, “My favorite flavor. They don’t carry it in the shops.” He opened his mouth and slid his lips down again, achingly slow, up and then down, dipping lower each time. He sucked in on the next pull and suddenly, John’s restraint snapped.

He growled and pulled Sherlock off of him. He pulled his bottoms up far enough to allow him to move and with the disguised strength in his compact form, he lifted him up from under his thighs and slammed his arse on the table. They both heard in the far distance, an ominous creak, but could no more have heeded it than they could have a bumblebee buzzing its wings in Birmingham. Or was it Brazil?

John lunged for Sherlock’s mouth with a hunger that hadn’t been satisfied by the elegant meal. There was no tenderness in it. Their lips crashed together and John’s tongue thrust into his mouth like an invading army, reaching for the back of his throat. He pushed Sherlock back to lie flat and fumbled as he opened his trousers. An intense shudder ran over him to find that Sherlock was without pants. He pulled the trousers off just far enough to expose him and pushed back on his legs so that his arse was in the air. Sherlock’s head thrashed back and forth as he moaned, “John, John, hurry, please.”

John blew his own breath onto Sherlock’s rosy pink bud. Frustrated with the restriction of the trousers around Sherlock’s knees, he stepped back and pulled them off. He dove back and licked right up to the dripping head of his cock, where he swirled his tongue around lazily. He made the lewd, wet noises that brought a beautiful blush to Sherlock’s cheeks. From there, he slurped sideways from the tip back down to Sherlock’s puckered hole. Sherlock lifted his head to watch and John met his eyes with a wicked grin, sticking out his tongue as far as it would go and swiping around in hot, wet circles. Sherlock’s face was a bright red by now and he slammed his head back down on the table in agonized bliss. The poor table let out another creak. Or was it a crack? Sherlock groaned, “John, please, now, now, now…” John shoved his own trousers and pants back down again, shook one foot, then the other and stepped out of them. He pushed on the backs of Sherlock’s thighs, exposing him completely.

Breathlessly he teased him. “What Sherlock? Do you want something? Aren’t you enjoying yourself? Or is there something else you want?” It irritated Sherlock when John in actuality didn’t know what he wanted. When he pretended he didn’t know, it drove him mad.

“JOHN!” he shouted. “You know what I need. Stop teasing!” John rummaged in Sherlock’s rucked up pockets till he found the lube he’d known Sherlock would have been sure to stash. He flipped the top of the tube and Sherlock gave a small gasp. That was a sound to which they were both far more attuned. “Use your words, Sherlock. Tell me what you need,” he growled. Even after years, Sherlock struggled to ask for what he wanted, but John would never let him off the hook. “Look at me.” Sherlock lifted his head, eyes closed in the grips of some misguided shyness or embarrassment and John puffed a cool breath on Sherlock’s bollocks then took one of them entirely into his mouth. Sherlock’s eyes flew open. John smiled. “There you are. Now.” More seriously, “What. Do. You. Want?”

Sherlock drew a stuttering breath. “Fill me up. Fuck me. Please, fuck me, John. Now.”

John looked at him with a frightening smile. “It would be my great pleasure, love,” and he began with his tongue. Sherlock’s head thudded and the table signaled its displeasure. Once John had loosened up the outer ring of muscle with the tip of his tongue, he held the lube over the head of Sherlock’s cock and let a slick stream of it drizzle its way down to the opening that was now twitching in anticipation. He let more drip onto his fingers and circled the entrance teasingly until Sherlock was lifting his hips off the table and trying to thrust himself onto them. John stood up straight and forced Sherlock’s hips down onto the table, which was now swaying under Sherlock’s thrashing. “Hold still now,” he said, in The Captain’s voice, “or you’ll hurt yourself.” He gave him a sharp spank on the side of his arse, just below his hip and in a hoarse whisper said, “I’ll decide if there’s any hurting to be done.”

Sherlock froze and John inserted just the tip of his finger and held it there perfectly still, so that the entire weight of Sherlock’s monumental powers of observation were focused on that precise spot. John pushed in farther and twisted as he went. He began an achingly slow rhythm of in and out until he could feel Sherlock vibrating with tension, like a long-held note on his violin. “Please John, please, more, please.”

“Such good manners. What a good boy. If you want more, then more you shall have.” He added a second finger and continued the slow push and pull. After a few minutes of Sherlock’s quiet panting, John began to spread his fingers, pulling out in a widened V, stretching Sherlock open until he could insert a third finger. Sherlock twitched and moaned and rolled his hips up and down, trying to drive the fingers deeper. John gripped his hip with his free hand and Sherlock stilled again. “I can’t wait anymore, John, please fuck me, please I need you inside me, now.” John eased the fingers out and silenced Sherlock’s needy moan with a wet, open-mouthed kiss.

“Coming right up you gorgeous thing.” He took up the bottle of lube and lined up his cock next to Sherlock’s and poured the slick all over both of them and Sherlock rose up off the table to drive himself up against John’s cock and into their fists. John threw his head back and lost his resolve for a few blissful seconds, then shoved Sherlock down again, commanding him, “Lie still!”

“Please, please, please,” Sherlock chanted mindlessly. John spread his knees and pushed them back so that his cock lined up with Sherlock’s twitching entrance. Sherlock lifted his head as far as he could, trying to see the prize he’d been begging for. John was intent with surgical focus on his goal, but shot his eyes up at Sherlock’s and growled at him one last time as he stretched him open finally, “Lie. Still.” He slid in as achingly slowly as he could, wanting to feel every centimeter of his lover, knowing that he was the only one who ever would. He was hot and slick and tight and John pushed, pushed until he came flush up against the round cheeks of Sherlock’s arse. It wasn’t deep enough and John pulled down on Sherlock’s hipbones trying to get deeper inside him.

Sherlock moaned wordlessly, “Nnngh. Aaah. Aah.” He panted and gasped and his hands reached up to grab at John but couldn’t find him. His fingers scrabbled at the surface of the table, finding nothing to hold him down to earth and he drifted on the waves of pleasure that were being driven through him by John’s relentless intrusions. When John finally, at a glacial pace, pulled back, he slammed back in and spent a few moments twisting and rotating his hips, and pushing back gently on the backs of Sherlock’s knees until he heard him let out a stuttering whine that let him know he had found the spot he was seeking. And then he gave up his careful searching and drove into and out of him with a blind passion. He reached for Sherlock’s shaft, which was dripping pearly fluid onto the tautly drawn muscles of his stomach. He stroked up and down at the same pace of his thrusts and after a very few codas, they came together in a harmonic of shout and groan….  

The memory never failed to replicate its gorgeous ending and served its purpose for John now. He came, leaning up against the wall of the shower, as quietly as he could, so as not to torture Sherlock any more than necessary. As he cooled off he replayed the less than elegant ending of the scenario….  

When John had finished working Sherlock through his shuddering release, he reached for his head to draw him into another bruising kiss and collapsed onto him, sending the table crashing to the floor, split neatly down the middle. Fortunately Sherlock’s skull was held safely away from the impact by John’s capable hands and casualties were limited to the furniture. Once John had checked Sherlock twice over for injuries, despite his protestations, a most unusual look spread across his sculptured face. It was dread. With widened eyes, he said, “What are we going to tell Mrs. Hudson?” like a boy who was terrified of a scolding.

John broke into hysterical giggles at his expression and rolled off him as well as he could, pulling out of Sherlock with a plop, onto the floor, pushing the wrecked table out of the way. Sherlock kept up the worried patter, as he clutched him to his chest, “John, she’s going to want to know what happened. We can’t tell her the truth. She’d never let us forget it. She’s going to be very cross with us. She probably won’t cook for us for a week, a month, even.”

John curled up around him and when he could speak from the laughing, he tried to soothe him. “Sherlock, calm down. She will be a little ticked but Mrs. Hudson is no blushing bride. I assure you that she knows that we’ve been shagging each other silly for quite some time now. It will be a bit embarrassing, but you’ve lived through far worse and you’ve certainly put me through more humiliation. In public. Besides, underneath the scolding she’ll be dead chuffed to be able to brag about us to Mrs. Turner. I bet her married ones haven’t broken any furniture.”  

Sherlock flushed an even brighter red and buried his face into John’s shoulder, trying to hide at the thought of the coming shame. He moaned, “Oh, no. I won’t be able to look her in the eye.” John laughed harder.

Mrs. Hudson was not pleased, but honestly, it had been worth it. She had been at her sister’s for the weekend and they’d thought they’d try to make up a plausible story, but a woman who knows where you keep your handcuffs is not easy to fool. She went on and on about how she’d had that table since she’d moved back from Florida and that she was very fond of it, etc. but there were, no doubt, elements of teasing in her questions about how they possibly could have split it down the middle. After John had apologized about seven times and Sherlock had insisted that it couldn’t possibly make any difference how the table had broken, she said, “Well, boys, I’ve been around the block a time or two and if you don’t want to explain what happened, I’ll just draw my own conclusions. But even if I’m not going to get the whole story, could you answer just one question?”

John said, “What’s that?”

“Who was on top?”

Sherlock buried his hands in his arms and groaned while John drew himself up and for Sherlock’s benefit, said, with a straight face, “That will be quite enough Mrs. Hudson! We’ll replace the table and there’s an end to it!”

She gave them a very cheeky smile and looked back and forth between them. “Oh never mind,” she said knowingly, “I see.”

Sherlock stood up at that, pointing at the door and shouting, “OUT! Out now!”

“I’m going, I’m going, no need to get touchy, it was my table broken, wasn’t it…” John shuffled her out and slammed the door behind her. Sherlock collapsed into the chair again. “She’ll never let us live it down. And what did she mean by ‘never mind?’” John went over and put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, intending on comforting him but collapsing against him into helpless laughter again, while Sherlock glared around at him....

The water in the shower, and John, cooled off simultaneously and he dried off thinking happily that the punishment would be over soon. He was not worried in the slightest that his morning wanks would detract from the eventual celebratory downpour that would end the five-day drought. He couldn’t wait to get his hands, mouth, cock on him. Or in him. Or both. When he opened the door, he was startled to see Sherlock standing waiting for him. “You took too long. I got lonely,” he pouted. John smiled and gave him a kiss. “Well, I’m here now. Did you let the toast burn? Let’s go eat.”

 


	6. Think of England

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight's punishment is on Mycroft's behalf and calls for a more formal setting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please send multiple virtual hugs to beta extraordinaire, Tiaoconnell, who continues to make me a better writer, chapter by chapter. 
> 
> It's looking like this is going to work out to 10 chapters, so have no fear, it will be finished. 
> 
> This chapter includes caning, so if that doesn't float your boat, you can skip it without losing too much of the plot.
> 
> There is also a very brief mention of past child and domestic abuse. Please take care.
> 
> If you enjoy the work of this humble scribbler, please leave a comment. They make me ridiculously happy and eager to write the next chapter.

It was a delicious breakfast. Sherlock cooked so seldomly, that it was easy to forget that he was a chemist, in and out of the kitchen. His arse had cooled off enough that John was able to coax him to sit gingerly on a sofa cushion at the table. He knew that after this evening, it would be at least a couple of more days before he’d be able to manage it again, and John thought he should take advantage of the opportunity while he could. They cleaned up together after the meal and John asked him, “Would you prefer to walk now or later, love?”

He answered, “Later, I think. I’ll be having more trouble focusing then. And I’d like to get Mycroft’s letter done. Not sure I’ll be able to come up with 500 apologetic words, honestly.”

John considered. “Let’s take it one step at a time. I’m not really sure I could either.”

It proved to be even more difficult than either of them had feared. Sherlock paced, juggled pens and pencils, did some virtual composing, but by the time John’s stomach growled for lunch he had nothing but scratched out, crumpled up pages. When John called him to the table, he turned from where he was staring out the window and shouted in frustration. “This is impossible! I’m never going to be able to think of anything. Nothing sincere, certainly.”

“Well, put it aside for now, and come and eat. You can tell me what’s tripping you up and maybe we can figure out a way around it together.”

Sherlock stomped to the table, remembering at the last moment not to slam himself down onto the chair, but he still made his displeasure obvious. John put his plate in front of him and tucked in while Sherlock complained.

“You don’t understand, John. Why should I need to apologize to him, for anything I’ve done. He’s provoked me into most of it, interfering since the day I was born, treating me as if I l were still a child. Even when we were children, he considered himself a second mummy to me,” jeering, “as if he were responsible for every aspect of my existence. And therefore, entitled to monitor me like some kind of science experiment. He overstepped his role, no matter what he thinks about our parents’ abilities to…Always, always, watching me, ordering me around, do this, don’t do that, ‘you’re a Holmes’, even when I was at school, checking up on me. I couldn’t escape him.” Sherlock’s hands were flying around, trying to help him make his point.

“And then he blames me when he has to activate his divisions and lackeys and equipment to rescue me.” He rolled his eyes at the last bit. “I don’t need rescuing. I didn’t ask him to rescue me. Why should I be grateful for something I didn’t want in the first place? And to have to apologize? He should have minded his own business and I wouldn’t have to apologize! If it’s such a horrible imposition or waste of his, or should I say, the Empire’s resources to clear up after what he considers to be my messes, he’s more than welcome to sod off permanently. He’s pried and butted in from the beginning and I don’t need him trying to save my life every—“

John had been eating, but gradually, as Sherlock kept on, he put down his sandwich. He arranged his napkin, plate and fork in a straight line, his lips tightening. He sat up straighter in his chair; several deep breaths did nothing to calm him down. He tried sipping his tea, but when Sherlock mentioned Mycroft trying to save life, it was more than he could stand. He slammed his mug down on the table and shouted, “Enough! That is enough, Sherlock!”

Sherlock froze and stared at him with widened eyes. John shouted at him. John tried very hard not to shout at him, he hardly ever did anymore, only when Sherlock was pretty sure in advance that he’d be yelling about something he’d decided to do anyway, but he was yelling now, so something must be wrong. For the life of him, he couldn’t think what it might be. He stood up and looked around for some forbidden substance he might have forgotten to clean up. No alarms. Nothing burning. Or leaking. Or visibly structurally compromised. He looked back mystified. “What is it? What did I do?”

“You have no context for the things you’re saying. You’ve gotten so stuck in your idea of who Mycroft is, that you can’t see him for who he actually is. You can’t hear yourself, sounding like a spoiled brat. But you’re going to hear me, so sit down.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on him and trying not to make any noise with the chair, sat down gingerly.

John laid his hands on the table. “I have an older sibling too, remember? I’m a baby brother just like you are. You want to hear me whinge about my older sister? How about this? That scar on the back of my right arm? You asked me how I got that but I let you think it was just another mark from Afghanistan. Well it wasn’t. That was from my da’s belt. I was eight years old. He was drunk and Harry had tipped over the last of one of his bottles to keep him from drinking any more of it. When she saw the murder in his eyes, she told him I’d done it. And she watched while he went after me with the buckle end. I was covering my head, Sherlock. And he cut the back of my arm open. It should have been stitched, but Harry said that that would just make him angrier, and don’t tell Ma because she would feel bad. She was only ten. I didn’t blame her. She had no courage, she never did. But she grew up.”

“I tried so hard to be good, to keep him off of us, but she didn’t care. She would wind him up and then storm out, leaving Ma behind and me trying to keep him off her. She stole the grocery money to buy her own liquor so Ma would have to stretch the meat. We’d go short so Da wouldn’t notice."

"Did Mycroft ever blame you for one of his scrapes? No, ‘cause of course he was Mycroft. He never had any. If I had to bet, your mum would tell us how many times he tried to take the blame for yours, right?” Sherlock lowered his eyes and stayed quiet. “He saved your arse at school too, didn’t he? Did he talk them out of caning you? Expelling you? How many times did they want to kick you out?”

John got up to pace. His hand was shaking and he kept clenching, trying to still it.

“I was careful, Sherlock. I knew minefields before I ever got near a warzone. I never needed to be rescued from anything, but you know who did? Harry. Over and over again. Drunk and stuck, drunk and lost, drunk and beat up, drunk and in lockup. Even after she left home, she would still call me wanting me to bail her out. And I did,” he admitted bitterly.

“And never a thought to helping with Ma when she got battered, then sick. Not coming home for the funeral. She didn’t even show up for what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. She couldn’t even get herself together enough to come to my wedding.”

Sherlock echoed John’s bitterness and said, “We had that in common, at least.”

John whirled around and scowled at him, confused.

“It was the saddest day of mine and Mycroft didn’t come either.” There was an undercurrent of resentment in his words.

“I’ll tell you the difference between them, right there, Sherlock. Harry couldn’t bear to see me happy. Mycroft couldn’t bear to see you sad.”

Sherlock’s head was bent and he tried to meet John’s eyes, but he had no courage himself at the moment and he stared at the table instead.

John nodded to himself and kept on. “The last time we were at your parents’, do you remember, you were so irritated when your mum brought out the photo albums. You know what I remember about them? How many of them were of Mycroft with you in his arms when you were a baby or his arm around you as a kid, or standing next to you when you got older. Looking as proud of you as if you’d already won the Nobel Prize in chemistry. My guess is you were never easy, but he was always there, wasn’t he? Yeah. He doesn’t know when to back off and he meddles when he shouldn’t, probably,” (Sherlock snorted), “but I imagine it’s a hard habit to break, trying to watch out for his baby brother, especially since you haven’t gotten any better at watching out for yourself. It certainly would be easier for him to leave you to your own self-destructive ways wouldn’t it? Especially in his position. He could just wash his hands of you. It would certainly be easy for him to disavow all responsibility for you, wouldn’t it?”

Sherlock looked up and stared at him, clearly having trouble processing the words. He blinked. And blinked. And blinked.

“Sherlock?”

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock! I’m starting to worry a little now, can you speak to me please?”

“I never actually considered that John. I’m sure I’ve been…an embarrassment to him on at least a few occasions—“

John snorted. “You’ve been an intentional embarrassment to him a hundred times at least, since I’ve known you.”

“Yes, well. He could just deny all responsibility, all knowledge of me. His life would certainly be easier.”

“Would yours? Honestly, Sherlock, would your life be easier without Mycroft saving your arse, your life, when you really need it? Would you be here at all?”

The anger dissipated, leaving John spent. He desperately wanted the weekend to be over. He walked over to Sherlock and put his arms around him. Sherlock laid his head against his chest.

“I’m not telling you to go all brotherly love on him. That would be…disturbing. But could you possibly just try to think about him differently? Give him the tiniest benefit of the doubt. Look at his actions in light of how it could have been different? About what would change if he actually did what you think you want him to do.”

Sherlock turned his face into John’s chest and mumbled something that John took to mean, “I’ll try again.”

They ate in quiet and since it had begun to rain, the day’s walk was canceled. John printed out some emails from the website with cases that looked to be the least boring for Sherlock to flip through. He read those, then the papers, spread out on the sitting room floor, did some virtual composing and paced restlessly. He worked on the letter intermittently, still scratching out more than he left on the paper. The afternoon wound down into evening and John was still deliberating over the nature of the night’s punishment.

“Dinner in an hour, Sherlock, how far have you gotten?”

He rubbed at his face and said, “This time I really think I’ve gone as far as I can. Can you read it for me and see if it’s enough?”

John read to himself.

 

MH,

As you no doubt already know, I have been ordered to write you a letter of apology. It has proven to be quite difficult as you can imagine.

  I. After enormous, painful consideration, I have identified the following areas of authentic contrition:

     A. I regret having increased the difficulty of the conditions of your employment.

     B. I regret the distractions caused by my less than adequate regard for my own physical safety and well-being.

  II. I would recommend that you convey your gratitude to my spouse for the following realizations on my part:

     A. You were a good brother when I was growing up.

     B. You are a better brother now than I will ever be willing to acknowledge.

     C. I am not as good a brother as you deserve.

I will endeavour to consider the above points at critical junctures henceforth.

SH

 

John nodded. “I think he’ll be satisfied. I am.”

They ate dinner.

Afterwards, it was very low-key evening, John in his chair, Sherlock on his belly on the sofa. The rain kept on, they lit a fire, played music and Sherlock picked through a stack of articles that had been falling on the floor and being picked up by John and Mrs. Hudson for months. Mostly, John alternately stared off into the distance, then at Sherlock, then into space again. It was making him twitch.

“I cannot possibly read while you are thinking so loudly, John. You are obviously struggling with something. Would you care to share? Might I be able to assist perhaps?”

“Actually you might. You won’t enjoy it, though.”

Sherlock gave him a suspicious look. “In that case, I withdraw my offer.” He ostensibly returned to his article, but the combination of curiosity and anxiety rendered him incapable of reading.

“Too late.” John gave him a sympathetic smile. “I need to know. Did Mycroft…when you said he overstepped his role, what did you mean?”

Sherlock put the article on the floor and buried his face in the cushion. A muffled “Oh, God,” found its way out.

“I really do need to know. I wouldn’t pry otherwise.”

Sherlock turned his head towards the back of the sofa and John struggled to hear him. “Yes. The answer is yes. My parents were constitutionally incapable of physical discipline. The teachers and headmaster wore out their canes on me and I never saw it as anything other than a challenge. Prepared me quite well for Serb—“he cut off quickly, looking at John, who had closed his eyes and turned his head away, “future experiences.” Sherlock waited until John had turned back around. “They were contemptible. Mycroft was…not. There was a time that I looked up to him,” adding quickly, “it’s only natural for a younger sibling.” He looked again at John, trying to judge his reaction. _Is he actually afraid that I’d think less of him for it?_

John went over to the sofa and picked up the cushion Sherlock had been hiding in. When he lifted himself on his elbows, John sat and Sherlock hid in his lap. “’Course it is. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. And Mycroft, your big brother, you knew he was clever and he did take care of you.” He felt Sherlock bristle, and tugged on his hair gently. “Oh, stop it, you know he did. I could see it even in the photos.”

Settling, Sherlock conceded, “I did not like disappointing him. Especially when he told me I was being ordinary. That it was beneath me to act like the savages we had to associate with at school. I never would have made it through school without him, taking over the roles of the adults. I hated him for it but he would not give up. He bought me chemicals, equipment, things no one else would when I did well, and yes, he punished me when I didn’t. He kept them from expelling me, reminded them they’d be sorry if they lost such a promising intellect. Ha! As if… He offered to handle the…disciplinary problems as they occurred. They were certainly happy to wash their hands of me.”

John let his fingers wander through the curls.

“He caned you, didn’t he?”

John felt the tiniest of nods.

“It was a deterrent.” Another nod.

John sighed. “I don’t like the cane, Sherlock.” A shake this time. “You don’t either.” Another shake. “It feels like the right thing this time, though, doesn’t it.” He waited for another move of the head but the only movement was a deep sigh.

“Go on and get ready. I’ll be there in a moment.” Sherlock heaved himself off John’s lap and the sofa and dragged his feet to the loo. No corner time was necessary to prepare for a caning. It prepared you all by itself. John was more worried about preparing himself. He had never experienced the cane himself but had seen it used enough at school to know its effectiveness. He’d used it on Sherlock only when he’d considered him to have endangered himself recklessly and unnecessarily. It would serve for Mycroft’s punishment.

John retrieved the cane from the upstairs wardrobe and found Sherlock rolled up in a ball, with the duvet over his head. A flutter of sympathy stirred in John’s belly, his lips pursing. He steeled himself against the desire to call the whole thing off. He thought of Harry, then of Mycroft, deploying helicopters to find his baby brother and approached the bed. “Budge over.”

The mound shuffled itself towards the center of the mattress and he sat. He tugged the cover down and tried to comb the tangled curls into some kind of order. _Hopeless._ John thought he might at the very least offer Sherlock a choice of positions. “Which would you rather? Lying down or over the footboard?” The bed would result in a somewhat less painful stroke as the angle would be lessened and be less of a revisiting of what must have been painful memories, in more ways than one.

Sherlock spoke with resignation. “All things Mycroft call for the traditional. Keep calm and carry on, Queen and country. Bend over and think of England.”

“Seems appropriate. Stiff upper lip, chap, and all that.”

John stood up and Sherlock unfurled himself and said, “Six of the best then?” He walked to the end of the bed and bent over the footboard with his elbows on the mattress.

John winced. He had been leaning towards three, but six really was standard. “Six of the best.” He retrieved two pillows and said, “Put your elbows up on these.” It would help to raise his head, lessen the angle and leave his skin less tightly drawn.

“You're softening, John.”

“Shut up, idiot.” _I love you._ “I’m in charge, remember?”

“Yes, sir.” _I know you do. Not sure why._

John was going to need more than one night at the pub after this was all over.

Sherlock arranged himself, pulling up his dressing gown, prepared for inspection. John noted with satisfaction that the redness and bruising was much reduced. The satisfaction dissipated as he tightened his grip on the handle of the cane.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why are you being punished Sherlock?”

“Because I misbehaved.”

“What did you do?”

“I disobeyed the rules.”

“In what way?”

“I hid in the wardrobe when I was supposed to stay at the desk.”

“And who is this session for?

“Mycroft.”

“Who?”

John waited and Sherlock cringed.

“My brother.”

John tested his stroke, bringing the cane down gently in the place he intended to land. It would not do to be careless. He was determined not to double up on any of the blows, and it would require careful aim to lay them parallel to one another. He hoped to keep from leaving welts that would bruise, mindful that there was still one more day of punishment to go.

Sherlock tensed in anticipation despite himself, breathing shallowly, and John swung. The noise itself was painful, a sharp crack. Sherlock gasped with the pain of it and jerked his head up off the pillow. Once the sting set in, he began to twist the pillowcase in his fist. The stroke itself left a line that was white for a second then sharpened to a bright red on top of the pink left from the previous days’ blows. John tightened his lips.

“What did Mycroft do when he found out you were missing?”

“He overreacted.”

John snapped the cane across the backs of Sherlock’ thighs just hard enough to sting.

“Ow! Not fair.”

“One for attitude. For a genius you can be astonishingly stupid. Was the sarcasm worth it?”

“No! Not really. Perhaps if he had been here…”

“In that case…” John tapped against his thighs again.

“No! No, no, I’m sorry, no it wasn’t worth it. I…I couldn’t help it.”

John tapped once again, a little more firmly and Sherlock blurted out, “Ok! Stupid, you’re right. Sorry. No more.”

“You have forced me to repeat myself. What did Mycroft do when he found out you were missing?”

“He deployed his resources.”

He paused and let the anticipation build, then let his second stroke fall parallel to the first. There was a frozen moment until Sherlock’s nervous system caught up to the stimulus. “Aah! Ah, ah, ah.” John watched as his back, thighs, buttocks, flinched, tightening and releasing, trying somehow to mitigate the maddening burn, but the lessons taught at school had been bred in deep. Lose your position and earn penalty strokes. Sherlock held himself in place, but for the squeezing of his hands and tensing of his muscles.

“As a side note, have you ever wondered how much that costs, Sherlock? Scrambling special op units, helicopters? And how much it costs Mycroft personally, with his staff? Of course not…” He felt silly having brought it up.

Through tight lips, Sherlock said, “Hardly a time for an economics lecture, John.”

John wordlessly switched the cane to his right hand and gave him a slap on his left cheek, trying to avoid the raised tracks, but not too hard.

“Ow, ow, ow, John, not fa—I’m trying.”

“Try harder. Why did he do that, deploy his resources?”

John could hear him grinding his teeth to keep the sarcasm from leaking out. He issued a warning. “Sherlock. Your mouth is endangering your arse. Six is more than enough, don’t you think?” He rubbed the cane over the welts that were forming from the red lines he’d left on him.

Sherlock shifted from one foot to the other and said quickly, “Yes, yes sir, six is more than enough!”

“So, without snark this time, why did Mycroft send out helicopters and MI6 agents to look for you?”

He took a deep breath and answered, seriously this time, “He was afraid that I’d gone to use again.”

John aimed his third stroke, touching the cane to a spot slightly underneath the second. He drew his arm back and aimed past where he wanted the cane to land. It struck, springing back, and John watched the red track appear in its wake. Sherlock hissed and bounced his right foot up and down. He panted and rubbed his face into the pillow as though it might lessen the sting on his bum.

“What does that tell you about your brother, that without a moment’s hesitation, he is willing to use all of the considerable resources at his disposal, to try and keep you from hurting yourself?"

There was a period of silence that John was not pleased with and he brought the cane down, lower yet again, getting closer to the sensitive skin over Sherlock’s sit spots, without him having answered. He was clearly unprepared and let out a yelp that ruined his attempts at stoicism. “Ow-ow-ow-ow-he-he worries about me?”

John may have allowed his personal emotions to influence his decision about the punishment but he was through allowing Sherlock to dance around the obvious. With hardly a beat, he gave Sherlock his fifth stroke directly under the last. “Enough, Sherlock. Use the words. Say it.”

Shoulders shaking, stamping his foot on the floor, Sherlock choked them out, “He loves me.”

“Yes he does. And you’re damned lucky, aren’t you?”

Sherlock wiped viciously at the tears sliding down his cheeks, but answered softly, “Yes. I am.” In his mind’s eye, John saw a teenager as thin and sharp as fine crystal, steeling himself against the brutality of teachers and headmasters, trying to break him and failing and he was grateful they had never succeeded. He was so proud of him, refusing to shatter against trivial mentalities, but breaking himself open to his lover, brother and friends.

He kept his question simple. “Will you remind yourself of that in the future before you decide to ignore the rules we’ve agreed on to keep you safe?” John knew that he wouldn’t be able to answer anymore, his breaths shuddering in and out rapidly between the sobs and he accepted the quiver of Sherlock’s head as a yes.

He laid the last as low as he could and Sherlock cried out, now stamping both feet alternately and crying into the pillow. He nodded his head and John slid the cane under the bed. _Hateful thing. Never again. We’ll think of something else._ He pulled Sherlock up by the shoulder and put his arms around him. Sherlock latched on with one arm, running his fingers carefully over the welts rising up on his bottom with the other. John let him cry into the side of his neck for a few minutes.

“It’s over now. Come lie down on the bed. I'm here. You’ll be ok.” He pulled him gently around to the side of the bed, grabbing the pillows on the way. He replaced them and when Sherlock eased himself onto the bed, he grabbed one and continued crying into it. Sherlock's hand stole down again to feel the heat and the double lines, running parallel. _At least I didn’t bollocks that up._ John walked abound to the other side of the bed and clambered across to him. He wanted Sherlock’s head out of the pillow and he eased himself underneath and gave him his shoulder to cry on instead. To remind him he wasn’t alone. He was itching to get a cool compress and aloe onto the stripes, but he was more concerned about Sherlock’s emotional health at the moment. They were messing about in sensitive areas and John felt a great responsibility to keep him feeling safe.

Sherlock wrapped his arm around him and tried to snuggle closer. John caressed him, humming tunelessly while the crying tapered off into sniffling. He whispered reassurances into his ear and held on tight. “You’re not alone. Just breathe with me now. That’s it.” Eventually, Sherlock lifted his head and tried to make eye contact.

“I’m afraid I’ve smeared…fluids all over the pillows. And you.” He attempted a chuckle that ended with a few shaky breaths.

“Luckily, we have spares. Pillows, not me.”

“No, John, you are singular.” He rubbed his face on his pyjamas.

John said, “Hmm. For a minute, I thought you might have been complimenting me, but you just used me to wipe your nose again, didn’t you?”

Sherlock let out a steadier chuckle this time, so John felt safe asking him if he could get the cloth and aloe from the fridge where he’d left them to chill.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, eventually, but are you ok now?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shooed him away. “You’re fussing. Go.”

Kissing his forehead before he slid out of the bed, John stripped his shirt off and tossed it into the corner. He hurried to the kitchen and returned to the bedroom within two minutes, but Sherlock had already fallen asleep. John rubbed his shoulders and dug his thumbs into the tight muscles around his scapulae to rouse him. He absolutely had to cool his arse off, but shocking him out of a doze would be counterproductive.

“Wake up, love. I need to take care of your bum.”

Sherlock grumbled and whined, but John was relentless. “This is going to be cold and I want you to put a shirt on, a jumper maybe, so you don’t get chilled.”

Sherlock lifted his eyelids up a bit and in his little voice, said, “Can I have the ugly oatmeal one?”

John kissed the back of his neck and said, “Whichever you like.” John pulled the shapeless, faded thing out of the wardrobe and helped Sherlock wiggle into it. He sighed at the coziness and John proceeded with his doctoring.

“This is going to sting, Bumblebee.” Sherlock pretended to frown at the nickname he secretly cherished. John laid the flannel across the stripes as gently as he could, but Sherlock jerked at the touch.

“Ow, John, ow!”

“I know, love, but we have to cool off your skin.”

Sherlock reached back to remove it, but John grabbed his hand and put it down firmly by his side. “Leave it be, now. I’m going to get you some water and paracetamol. By the time I get back, it’ll feel better.”

Sherlock whined.

“Don’t touch!”

John felt a twinge of guilt and had to remind himself that the man had been shot and stabbed and would survive a sore arse. He reminded himself, _Drama queen_.

He made Sherlock take the pills and brought another flannel to replace the one that had drawn the heat off. After that, the gel. He had been hoping the stripes wouldn’t bruise, but professionally, he wasn’t optimistic. He rubbed Sherlock’s back until he judged the aloe would be more beneficial. He squeezed directly from the tube along the paths that the cane had left. Spreading it as delicately as he could with only the tips of his fingers, Sherlock still drew a whistling breath into his lungs. “I know, I know. We’re all finished. You can relax now. Try to sleep.” He continued the soothing motions until all of the welts were covered.

“Better?”

Sherlock hummed and murmured out, “Coming?”

“Yes, it’ll just take me a minute.” John puttered, clearing away the flannels, gel and chair and putting his pyjamas on. He made him pick up his head so he could flip the pillow and slid in next to him. He fell asleep with Sherlock’s breath on his neck.


	7. The End Is in Sight?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weekend is almost over and might even end earlier than expected, but there's always something. 
> 
> This one is a pretty big something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you who have been sticking with me on this narrative path. Every comment is like a hot toddy of endorphins right into the vein, so please let loose!  
> And to Tiaoconnell, send much internet love for continuing to serve as an overly generous, and expert beta, and all around good buddy.

The two of them were worn out and although John slept late, Sherlock slept later. Morning was approaching afternoon when he went to poke the bear.

He opened the blinds first, then rustled around making soft noises. It was always best to ease him into morning as tenderly as possible. This morning it would be more important. He slipped into the bed, not too gently, hoping the dip and vibration would assist in the waking process. Scratching of the scalp, butterfly kisses all over the face and some nuzzling of the neck, formed his plan of attack. Soon, the great lump began to shift, then squirm over to extract John’s body heat from him. _Parasite._ _Lucky you’re adorable._

“Time to wake up, Sherlock.” A few pokes in the side of his chest.

“MMmmm. No.” He clung on a little tighter.

“It’s late. I’m hungry and you still owe me 3 more meals. C’mon.” He tickled his fingers up and down his rib cage.

“You’re always hungry. I want to sleep. Besides, my arse hurts.” John reached down to see for himself. Definitely welts left behind.

“Another reason to wake up. I want to take care of it. Go wash up and when you finish, I’ll cool you off.”

Sherlock complained bitterly but eventually, he got up and took a shower. Afterwards, John soothed the angry stripes with aloe again. Sherlock put his dressing gown on and they had breakfast.

As they did the washing up, John asked, “So what are your plans for today? Walk now or later?”

“I think I’d rather take the walk later. While I have the energy, I think I should work on… the… last… you know…” John gave him a raised eyebrow, making it clear he wouldn’t provide the words Sherlock was struggling with. “Uh, well, your letter, that is,” in his little voice.

John didn’t want to let the vulnerable moment pass. He took his hand and asked, “Why is it so difficult for you to use the words?”

Sherlock made to pull his hand away, but John wouldn’t let him. “Ugh,” he said in revulsion, “Why do I need to tell you if you already know? It serves no purpose, John!”

John shook his head in amused frustration at him. “Have you considered that it may serve no purpose for me, but that it might serve a purpose for you? Think about the question—what exactly is so hard about telling me this particular thing? It can’t be that you’re embarrassed about having to do it. I already know about it, I’m the one who put you to it, you agreed to it.”

John let him go when he tugged this time and, exasperated, Sherlock answered, “Is there some sort of emotional insight you want me to come to here John? Can’t you just tell me what it is, rather than make me suffer through the interminable journey it would take for me to arrive there independently?”

The dishes were finished and John recognized the anxiety Sherlock was attempting to disguise as annoyance. Calmly he said, “I’m afraid that’s exactly what you need to do. Remember that’s what punishment is for? To bring you to understanding and change through suffering? If you can’t figure it out, maybe you should spend some time in the corner, working it through—”

“No! Please. Please no. Just… Will you stay here? With me, while I try? Or maybe we can ‘work it through’ later on the walk?” using his fingers as quotation marks.

John had not been 100% teasing about the corner time, but he let the mild mocking pass, impressed by Sherlock’s constructive suggestion. “That’s brilliant. Ordinary, vacant humans frequently walk to solve problems. You've seen me storm out a few times, I'm sure." He slid him a knowing look out of the sides of his eyes. "Maybe it’ll work for your enormous brain, to figure out an emotional puzzle. By the way, you know you do the same thing to everyone else—make us work through things on our own. When you’re not showing off, that is. Especially me. Why do you think _you_ do it? Why don’t you just put me out of my misery and tell me the answer?”

Sherlock sighed. More questions he did not know the answers to. He did so hate not knowing. They moved to the sitting room and their respective desks, John sitting, working on his laptop, Sherlock leaning over, scribbling furiously on his notepad. John interrupted him occasionally asking for details to add to the case log he was working on, but otherwise they worked in comfortable silence. John estimated that his letter would be the longest of the collection, judging by the pace at which Sherlock was working.

It moved on towards lunchtime, but he was reluctant to interrupt him. Watching Sherlock at work was one of his favorite occupations at any time. It was positively delicious the way he fidgeted while he was writing—so different from the way he conducted himself when he was thinking abstractly. When puzzling through a crime or in his mind palace, he was positively statue-like in his perfect stillness. Now he scratched his head, tugged on his curls, rubbed his nose, lips, forehead, fiddled with the pen, putting it down and picking it up. John had to look away when he sucked on the tip or nibbled at it, but otherwise he was rapt.

Eventually, though, his stomach gave him away. It growled loudly enough to distract Sherlock who turned with a halfway grin to look at him. John smiled softly back and Sherlock asked, “Hungry again? You are insatiable, John Watson, in so many ways.” His face turned quizzical and he tilted his head. “You haven’t moved in the last 30 minutes. You’ve been staring at me. Why?” He blushed faintly.

John said, “Figure it out, genius. In the meanwhile, how long will it take you to finish that letter so we can eat?” He began moving toward the kitchen.

“Another hour? Can you hold out that long or will you waste away?”

“Very funny. Just hurry up and finish. I’m quite impressed, actually. You’ve been so very focused with a chore that wasn’t your choice. Why is that?”

“Hmph.”

John smiled at his attempt to avoid answering and replied, “Perhaps another thing to work out on our walk. I’m going to finish off the chicken for salad and then put up the carcass for a pot of soup. If you finish in time, I’ll let you do the dissection.”

Sherlock perked up, he did so enjoy a corpse, human or otherwise. “Maybe I’ll set aside some of the cartilage for a series of acid bath experiments. I’ve been meaning to test the long-term efficacy of citric acid from a grapefruit —”

John called out, “Focus!”

Right. He bent to his work, properly motivated. After 30 minutes or so, Sherlock said, “Just about done.” John had been working on the preparations but took his time, dawdling over the celery and onions, wanting to reward Sherlock’s diligence with the chicken’s remains and it was worthwhile. When he finally finished with a flourish he joined John and peppered him with questions about the anatomical analogies of domesticated fowl relative to Homo Sapiens and the proper Latin names for every structure he neatly isolated with the carving knife. John livened up the discussion by trying to recall who he’d been shagging during that particular section of the medical school curriculum: Diana, adorable little blonde during neurology, Janie, cardiovascular, Marilyn the entire two semesters of renal and musculoskeletal systems, etc.

He kept it up just for the jealous little frown that flashed over Sherlock’s features at the mention of each name, then laughed and kissed him with a little more heat than was wise, considering that there will still hours to go before the drought ended. He reminded himself how hungry he was and set the table. John ate up the chicken salad while Sherlock picked. John nagged until he had eaten enough to satisfy him while the soup simmered on the stove. John said, “Might rain again and I’d like to get out before it does. You go get dressed, however you can while I clean up. Do you need to wear the coveralls again?”

“Not sure. I’ll have to try the trousers on. But they’re probably too tight now that you’ve overstuffed me for 3 days,” he scowled. John ran his hands from his waist, up his ribs and scowled back. “You’re still too skinny.” He spun him around and pushed him toward the bedroom with a tap on his arse.

Sherlock came back in a few minutes in the coveralls again. John looked at him questioningly. “As I expected. Too tight. Front and back.”

John smiled and looked down to spare Sherlock some ego. He got ready and they headed out holding hands. John stayed uncharacteristically quiet as they walked. Usually he would comment or chatter out of habit, trying to draw Sherlock into conversation, but today he hoped that he would return to the topic of his reluctance to talk about his punishment, even to use the words in John’s presence, the one person he could be sure would be sensitive to his vulnerability. The longer they walked in silence, the more agitated he could sense Sherlock becoming, giving him sideways looks and fidgeting his hand in his pocket. John waited him out.

Finally, Sherlock broke. “Well?”

John remained impassive. “Well, what?”

Sherlock didn’t quite shout at him, “Aren’t you going to bring it up? Drag it out of me? Make me talk?”

John gave him a bland look, which, of course, increased Sherlock’s frustration exponentially. “Why are you so intent on civilizing me? Making me human or sentimental or soft or something?”

John laughed at him. “How about we call it balancing? Your enormous intellect and your undernourished emotions? They both reside in your brain, you know. Neurological experiments and brain injury research have proven that beyond any doubt. Let’s just say we’re helping you develop new synaptic connections.”

Sherlock was stunned into silence. His mouth in a perfect circle, he turned to look at John. Then with a huff of irritation, he said, “You’re right John! How could I have missed that? How could you have understood that before I have?” Frowning, John looked around to see if they were in view of anyone, then he pinched him on the arse.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“For being an arrogant sod. I’m a doctor, you git. By definition, I know more about the human body than you do.”

Dismissing the obvious with a haughty wave of his hand, Sherlock continued. “But this is brilliant! It may not be a waste of my faculties at all to work on, ugh, emotions. Studying their links to the higher order processes.” He couldn’t keep the testiness out of his voice. “Can’t we call them something else?”

John laughed at him again. “Let’s worry about what to call them later. We’re not going home until you figure out why it’s so hard for you to talk about what makes you so twitchy about discussing your punishments.”

Sherlock’s head dropped as the flush rose up from his throat.

He took pity on him. “All right, maybe you’re not ready for that yet. Why don’t I ask questions and you answer them? That might make it easier. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded.

John said, “No, you have to—”

Sherlock said, “I know, use my words. All right. All right, yes.”

“Okay, then.” John took his hand and pulled him along. “First. You’ve agreed to all of this right?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s embarrassing anyway.”

“Yes.”

“What about it is embarrassing, exactly?”

Sherlock lifted his fingertips to his temples, and then waved his hands around his head, grimacing in pain. “Augh. It’s… It…It makes me feel so…small. Childish. And stupid.”

“Stupid?” John was confused, but teased anyway. “But we all know you’re the second most brilliant person in the world.”

Sherlock glared at him, but answered, “Obviously not stupid in that sense, John, but ignorant, like a child who doesn’t understand the grown-ups’ conversation. Or like listening to a foreign language that you don’t quite speak. As though I’m missing important things and everyone else knows what’s going on but I don’t!”

Before he spoke, John thought, _Ella would have been pleased to know that I’ve internalized her dialogue after only, what, 6 years of therapy?_

“You don’t like feeling like that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked at him like he was being even more dense than he’d been the moment before. “Obviously, again. Try to keep up, John. And I never did, feel like that, before I met you.” Sherlock paused for a moment, another realization washing over him. He looked accusingly at him. “It’s your fault, isn’t it?”

John widened his eyes. “I believe it might be a corollary of all the other things you weren’t feeling before I came along.”

Sherlock sneered. “Like what?”

“Mmm, I don’t know, maybe companionship, friendship. Contentment? Affection. Love, maybe?”

Sherlock stopped again, astounded. John kept walking for a moment, until he realized he was walking alone and turned to look back at him. “What is it? What’s short-circuited those brand-new baby neurons we were talking about?”

“They are all corollaries, aren’t they? The positive emotions are correlated with the negative ones. Why Mycroft warned me off them all those years. And the,” deep breath, “punishments are only effective concomitant to the positive emotions others have…”

John prompted, “Yes?”

He struggled a bit with it, but finally spit out, “That others have towards me.”

John walked towards him and grabbed his hand, trying to keep him moving. “The penny drops. Now tell me where the discomfort and embarrassment comes from, my savant idiot.”

“John, the term is idiot savant.”

John tutted at him, “Tsk, tsk. Actually, the term “autistic savant” is preferred now. The archaic term, idiot savant refers to a severely cognitively limited or autistic individual, “extremely low” in the technical jargon, with a very specific skill set in the “genius range” or “highly advanced”. What you call it depends on who’s doing the measuring. Which scale is being used, who’s making the judgment. You are the opposite, a “very superior”, “extremely high”, “upper extreme” individual with a severely limited specific skill set in one category. You are an intellectual savant and an emotional idiot. Savant idiot. Emotions make you feel like a child because that part of you hasn’t developed properly.”

_Those poor neurons. Probably fried altogether now._

“Back to the question: discomfort and embarrassment? Tell me how they’re correlated to the positive emotions. Why didn’t you feel those things before?”

“No reason to. Didn’t care what anybody thought of me before. Other people’s opinions were irrelevant.”

“And now?”

“Now, all of these…people,” his upper lip curling, “are watching and interfering and—”

“Caring. That would be caring. About you and for you and despite your and Mycroft’s best efforts, you care about them. And what they think. And you don’t want to disappoint them!” John ended triumphantly.

 

Sherlock hadn’t finished the letter, so he spent some time on its final preparations, then some virtual composing. He said, “I’m actually looking forward to examining the results of this experiment, John. Just think, if it’s successful, I can appear to be taking notes, completely absorbed during Lestrade’s trivial, tedious interrogations when I’m actually composing! Lestrade has developed the ability to tell when I’m in my mind palace and it’s infuriating that he can call me back to attend to his drivel. He’ll have no idea that I’m paying no attention to him whatsoever!”

John sighed and said, “I’ve created a monster. Or a new level of monster.” Sherlock grinned and kept playing his imaginary violin.

When Sherlock began to get restless, John declared the soup to be finished and called him to the table. An early supper would bring the unpleasant portion of the evening to a close more quickly and allow more time for the activities he was anticipating afterwards. “I’m going to miss this, you know,” he told him.

Sherlock was trying to ease himself onto the cushion to see if his bum could tolerate it, and he looked at him in disbelief.

John laughed and said, “Not your suffering, idiot. Having you eat 3 times a day. Sitting down to a meal with you. More or less.” He tried to hide a smile and failed. “And, whether you’re willing to admit it or not, despite the weekend of trauma, your mood has been much more stable than it is when you’re trying to function on a scrap of toast every 36 hours. You might want to consider a few experiments with those variables,” he said, nonchalantly, hoping he could interest Sherlock in a little transport research.

Sherlock hmmphed skeptically.

“Just review the data, that’s all I’m saying.” He left it alone. Prodding at the idea was guaranteed to put out the spark of Sherlock’s curiosity, whereas if he just blew on it a bit, it might catch fire. Maybe he’d bring up the walking later. Or even the sleeping!

_Honestly, it’s like handling an IED_.

The soup was excellent and he made a mental note to fawn over Mrs. Hudson upon her return. He was grateful once again for his support system. Unconsciously, he mumbled, “It takes a village to raise a child.”

Sherlock looked up and said, “What are you muttering about?”

Startled, John said, “What? Oh, nothing. Nothing. Eat your soup. Telly after supper?”

He sighed in artificial resignation. “If we must.”

John thought a little cuddling on the sofa might help fortify them for the last round of punishment. Sherlock curled up with his head on John’s leg and shouted at the program for a half an hour, while John let his fingers run through his hair and scratched his scalp. Sherlock squirmed in pleasure and nuzzled his cheek against John’s thigh. John would stop from time to time just for the pleasure of having Sherlock try to make him keep going without actually asking for it. He would grumble or butt his head up against John’s belly. Once he actually picked up John’s hand and put it back on his own head.

Watching him, John recalled a dog from his childhood who would paw at you if he felt he wasn’t getting enough attention. He laughed, eliciting narrowed eyes from his current pet. He traced his cheekbone with the tip of his finger and stroked him back into contentment. He didn’t want to leave things until too late, so checked his watch and didn’t exactly ask him, “Why don’t we get ready?”

Sherlock protested, “Already?”

“The sooner we start, the sooner we can declare the grounding officially over. Move on to more pleasant activities,” John said with waggling eyebrows.

Sherlock got up reluctantly and John said, “Go and shower, then corner time. To put you in the right headspace.” Sherlock’s shoulders sagged and John felt a little sympathy, but reminded himself that Sherlock’s mindset was far more important than anything his body might be experiencing. He gave him a shove and said, “Quit stalling.”

While Sherlock was in the loo, John made sure the bedroom was ready. He changed the sheets, made sure they had all the supplies they might need for aftercare and the activities afterwards. He set his book by the chair for the period when he’d have to keep his eye on Sherlock during his corner time. Sherlock was out and wrapped in his blue silk robe with a towel around his neck, by the time he finished. John took the towel and made a couple of more swipes at his hair.

When he finished, John took the robe off him and gave him a gentle shove towards the corner. “Hands at your sides.” Sherlock took a deep breath and sighed it out. It was much harder for him to keep still when he didn’t have anything specific to do with his hands. John would have to watch for fidgeting. He’d caught him before, practicing violin fingering with his left hand and shuffling things in his mind palace on occasion. Sherlock turned around and asked, “Will you read my letter to you before…”

John tilted his head at him and waited. Sherlock swallowed and continued, “before the spanking?” He flushed a bright red. John nodded in approval and said, “Good boy. I am not going to read your letter beforehand because I’m afraid it will weaken my resolve. I can’t afford to feel any sympathy before I have to give you a spanking.” John repeated the word intentionally and Sherlock winced and dropped his head to look at his bare feet in embarrassment. “Go on.”

Sherlock took a step then turned around again and asked, “How long this time?”

John recognized this strategy as well. Sherlock had an atomic clock in his head and was fully capable of judging when his time would be up within five seconds, keeping his mind occupied with anything other than the fact that he was standing in a corner with a naked, red bum like a naughty child. John wanted him focused on the reason he was standing there. “Not your concern. I want you thinking about the last four days and what you’ll do differently in the future.”

Sherlock muttered under his breath and John said, “What was that?” knowing he wouldn’t get an answer. “Nothing.” He smiled and set the timer for 23 minutes, just to irritate him in case he counted down anyway. He started out strong, 8 minutes but then a few twitches. John gave him a few seconds to see if he would stop by himself, but then said, “Sherlock.” He startled a bit and then stretched his fingers out along the outside of his thighs with renewed determination.

At minute 18, he started shifting his weight from one foot to another and John said, “Hold still. That’s twice now. If you fidget again, I’m going to add time on.” At 19 minutes, 30 seconds John watched him carefully. Sure enough, at the stroke of 20 minutes, 4 seconds, he saw a minuscule tilt of Sherlock’s head, and John knew he had been keeping time, expecting a repeat of his last 20-minute session.

Sherlock might have been delighted to be surprised by his clever lover at another time, but his shoulders sagged a few seconds later and John knew he was frustrated not to be finished yet. When the timer finally went off, Sherlock asked, “Am I finished now?” and John said, “Yes,” mildly. Sherlock whirled around and said accusingly, “That was more than 20 minutes.” Mildly again, John said, “Yes. I believe I told you that wasn’t what you were to be thinking about. Do you remember what you were supposed to be thinking about?”

Abashed not in the slightest, he said, “Yes, John, I am more than capable of thinking and keeping time simultaneously.” John gave him raised eyebrows and with a humbler attitude, Sherlock dropped his eyes and said, “I wasn’t doing it consciously. I’m…sorry.” He looked up again and John gave him a reassuring smile. “I was thinking about what I could have done. I thought of seven things. Do you want to hear them?” he asked shyly.

“Well done! I would love to hear them.”

Sherlock started to tick off on his fingers. “So first, I thought of the headphones. I could have turned up the music and it might have helped cut out the noise of those brutes coming back to the office. I could have tried looking out the window. I could have tried to get Lestrade’s attention. I could have texted you again and asked to you to speak to me, or asked Molly if she could talk to me. Then, when it started getting to be too much, I might have asked to use the loo, or go into Lestrade’s office. And although it’s a completely theoretical solution, I could have attempted to text a minor official the British government. A minor official, of course.”

John was tremendously pleased. He beamed at him. “Seven. Seven options. I’m so bloody proud of you Sherlock. This is why you’re going to be successful this time around. You have options and a support system. You don’t have to try to fix everything by yourself. You’re not alone anymore. Come here.” Sherlock came, bashful and blushing, and John took his head between his hands, tilting his forehead down to give him a kiss.

“Now, let’s get this over with and behind us. No pun intended.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but waited quietly while John inspected his rear, assessing how well he was holding up under the previous days’ barrage and just how much punishment would be necessary to finish off the weekend’s goal. He thought a very few strokes of the paddle and then barehanded would be enough to get Sherlock to a point of discomfort that would last a few days. He would end the whole thing with his hand, just because it was more intimate. He got himself ready on the chair and tapped his leg when he was finished.

Sherlock went to him and settled onto his knees and said, “I’m, uh, sorry about the, uh, well,” and pointed between his legs where he was halfway to a decent erection. John shrugged and said, “It’s to be expected. It’s been four days. I’m not far behind you. Just make sure to situate yourself…precisely, shall we say,” and he shifted on the chair. Sherlock leered and draped himself, precisely, dragging his stiffening cock over John’s thigh.

John froze, shifted again and cleared his throat and Sherlock enjoyed his brief moment of triumph over the vibranium-strength will of Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. When he regained his composure, John gave him a tap and said, “Settle down and behave. Time for that later. Now, are you ready?”

Sherlock answered, “Yes, sir.”

“Why are you being punished?”

“Because I frightened you.”

John froze. He was dumbfounded. Sherlock hadn’t followed the script. They had established a ritual exchange at the beginning of the arrangement because at first, Sherlock had been incapable of independently identifying any misbehavior on his part and didn’t understand the difference between explaining and apologizing. The idea that his behavior had emotional consequences for others, was far beyond him.

When John asked him why he was being punished, his responses had been “I was bad,” or “Because you’re angry.” John had to teach him that the answer was, “I misbehaved,” or “I broke the rules.” He would then have to lead him step by step through his actions, helping him to fill in the gaps where his rational brain missed the emotional stepping-stones between action and consequence. It had taken a very long time, and Sherlock hated it. He still wasn’t very good at it. They’d barely started the work of recognizing the impact on others. This answer was something radically new: a detour, straight to the fallout, the effect of his behavior on another person. Specifically, in this particular instance, the one about to spank his arse. Sherlock had just taken a quantum leap and John wasn’t sure how to proceed.

He thought for a moment and then said, “Sherlock? Maybe you should go get me your letter. I think I’m going to need more data before I can punish you. I’m not quite sure what you need right now.” He helped the confused penitent stand up and stood steady under his enquiring gaze. He was pleased to know there were still times he could surprise him. “Go on and get it.” When he got back, Sherlock offered the letter to John but John shook his head. “No, I want you to read it to me. I want to hear you.” Sherlock reddened. He hadn’t counted on that level of exposure. It was one thing to put words on paper and quite another to speak them out loud. He looked around and asked, “Do you want me to stand, or…?”

John looked him over and said, “What would feel comfortable?” Sherlock hesitated and then walked directly to the side of John’s chair and sank down onto his knees, lowering himself to his heels, but then rising when the sting changed his mind. He cleared his throat and began to read.

Dear John,

I did not anticipate that yours would be the hardest letter to write. Upon my initial consideration, I planned to overwhelm you with sweet sentiment, knowing how susceptible you are to such manipulation. But, damn you, the discipline of forcing my thoughts onto paper has deprived me of my exceptional gift for dissembling. It is second-nature for me to deceive in the moment, sometimes, even without intending to. You know this of course, and though you have had some little success in reforming these tendencies in me, I find that in the quiet reflection of writing you a letter, I cannot be other than honest and, to my disgust, sincere.

Since the day we met, you have seen me ignore the opinions of the rabble. Such is the change that you have brought about in my life, that I now care what some people think; some very few. (See previous letters). Most infuriatingly, I care, overwhelmingly, what you think.

Now, to the even greater shame of my ruthless intellect, I care what those same people feel. Before I met you, I hardly realized that people felt things. Now I can imagine what their feelings are and, with those very few to whom I have previously referred, I, upon certain occasions, actually feel what I imagine them to be feeling.

For this calamity, I have no one to blame but you. You have cursed me with empathy and I will never forgive you for it. You have breached the walls which I had so painstakingly crafted to protect me from the uncomfortable and messy emotions which leech out from those I considered to be weaker than myself. Your constant chipping away at my defenses has left me exposed to the pain and fear of those who have had the courage to enter within my previously impregnable fortress. You have laid me open and left me vulnerable. When you are sad, I feel your sadness and then I feel my own. When you are afraid, I feel your fear and then I feel my own. And on those occasions when I am the source of your sadness and fear I loathe myself. I am not sure, but I think this is love. How awful an affliction. You say you love me and yet you have brought about my ruin.

Furthermore, you have presented me with unsolvable riddles. How could you possibly feel love for a person who causes you sadness and fear? I recommend that you abandon me at once. But you have promised that you will not; therefore I know, being who you are, that you will not. You are a dreadful fool and I pity you. If I were strong enough, I would abandon you to save you from your reckless and self-destructive obsession with me, and yet, the very feelings that you have inflicted upon me will not permit me to any longer. You have only yourself to blame that I can no longer disregard your pain, and so I must remain by your side, you self-sacrificing idiot.

You may consider the aforegoing to be the preface to my inept yet “heartfelt” apology.

I frightened you. You did not know where I was and you were afraid. Your best efforts to protect me from myself appeared to have failed. You blamed yourself for attempting to have an ordinary life, for putting your own needs above what you believed were my own. You thought you had put me at risk and imagined that I was in danger. I wish I could reverse time and undo what I did because I am now able, to a stunted degree, to imagine our positions reversed. In fact, I cannot avoid visualising our positions reversed and it prompts sensations that I would gladly exchange for a week in a Serbian basement. If this unbearable experience is a result of my paltry and inadequate love for you, then I am constitutionally incapable of imagining what it must be like for you, with your monumental capacity for love, to relive such potential loss.

For this I am sorry. So, so sorry. If I knew any words deeper than sorry, I would use them now. I will not ask for forgiveness. It is unnecessary. You have already forgiven me, you ridiculous man. I do not deserve it. I am desperately grateful.

Please help me. Do what you think best to ensure that I never cause you such pain again.

SH

Sherlock finished reading the letter and cleared his throat, looking at John for the first time. He was staring vacantly into the distance. Sherlock stood to try and catch his attention and stood longer, waiting until he began to twitch with anxiety. He said, “What’s the matter? What did I do? Why aren’t you talking? Did I do it wrong? I know it’s more than 500 words. I could go back and take some out if it’s too much. I really did learn a lesson this time.” John turned his head to look at him but there was no other reaction.

Sherlock tried again. “It’s what I said, isn’t it? I called you an idiot, but it’s only because you shouldn’t love me so much. You keep hoping I’m going to change and I’ve tried and I keep failing. And I hate feeling…I don’t know, what do you call it,” he tugged his hair, “…bad, cracked, broken, when I disappoint you and I’m always going to be disappointing you and I hate it.”

He whirled around, trying to see where he’d gone wrong. “I only meant you’re a fool because I’m not good enough for you and you should find someone who deserves you because I don’t.” With more certainty, he said, “You should put me on another day of punishment. A whole week, ok? All right?” Continued silence. “Please, say something. John?”

In frustration, he knocked John’s book off the table. He looked quickly at John, and picked it up immediately, walking around in circles, licking his lips. With another stab at sorting things, he walked back to John. “Forget this letter. I’ll write a new one. I’ll start over. Please, let me take it back.” Sherlock was panicking and he approached him as if to take the letter from his hands and that shook the seemingly dazed man from his apparent trance. He frowned at Sherlock and pulled the letter back.

“You won’t change a letter of it. It’s mine now and you can’t take it back.” Tears formed in John's eyes and when Sherlock saw them, he dropped to his knees and hugged John’s legs. He buried his face in his lap, breathing too fast and then starting to cry, “No! No, no, no! I’ve done it again! You’re crying! You’re sad! I made you sad. I’m a horrid, horrible person, I knew it. I can’t help it. Stop it, please stop crying, I can’t stand it!”

John dropped his head and laid his cheek on Sherlock’s hair. “Love, no, look at me. It’s all right, it’s ok, it’s not hurt crying, it’s love crying. Happy crying.” He stroked him and kissed the back of his head. “The letter is perfect.” Sherlock lifted his eyes, slowly, afraid of what he might see. John held him with his hands on the side of his face and wiped the tears away with his thumbs. “Look, see? Not sad. Proud of you, how insightful you are. There’s a word I’d never thought I’d use about you. The letter is brilliant. I know you’re telling the truth. It’s perfectly you.”

Sherlock reached up and wiped the tears from John’s cheeks with his fingertips and asked, “Not sad? Not disappointed?” John shook his head and said, “Sentimental crying. Not sad, not disappointed, I promise.” He kissed his forehead. Sherlock studied his face carefully and seeing the truth of the words there, he inhaled deeply in relief and dropped his head back into John’s lap. John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and rubbed his back until his breathing had slowed down and his muscles relaxed somewhat. “Shhh. It’s all good. In fact, let’s call the weekend officially over, ok? Punishment is finished. We’ve both had way more catharsis than necessary, yeah?”

Sherlock stilled and John could practically hear him thinking. He lifted his head and stared at John for a few seconds. John said, “What? You’re not pleased? You’re off the hook. Back to normal.”

Sherlock shook his head, sighed and dropped back into John’s lap. John tried again. “What are you doing? There’s no reason we have to have the last round of spanking. I’m declaring you officially pardoned.”

Sherlock looked up at him again and said in a dejected voice, “Once again, John, you see, but you do not observe. You cannot give me a reprieve. As much as I am desperate to avoid more…” he hesitated over the embarrassing word again, swallowing, “…spanking, you have to proceed as planned.”

John was baffled. “I’m in charge of decisions about punishment, remember? I say we’re through. How could you possibly want to continue, you git? You’re not enjoying it, I can tell the difference.”

Sherlock adamantly insisted, “NO! Of course I’m not enjoying it! You’ve seen my arse—I’m not going to be able to move normally for days as it is. Another one tonight is going to leave me crippled for a week. You don’t understand.” He shook his head in exasperation. “You must follow through. Don’t you see? The letter was true. I wrote it from ‘the heart’,” he said mockingly with gestured quotation marks around “heart”. “It was in no way calculated to influence my punishment. If you reward me, I won’t be able to trust my intentions in the future!” Confusion furrowed John’s brow and Sherlock gripped his knees.

“I might subconsciously try to influence your future decisions and you won’t be able to tell if I’m being sincere or not! No, you _have_ to follow through, otherwise, I won’t be able to trust you either. In fact, I've actually done myself a disservice. You mustn’t even show me any mercy. If you waver, I will be tempted to experiment to see if you can be manipulated in the future.”

John stumbled over his words. “But, but, you’ve obviously taken the lesson to heart, right? If you’ll forgive the expression. The punishment has…succeeded! Why would we need, or why would you want to continue?”

Sherlock shook his head and said, “You still don’t understand, or more likely I don’t know how to explain it properly.” He scratched his head, then came to a decision. “It might be easier for you to understand if it comes from someone on the other side. May I use your phone?” John tilted his head. Phones were off limits during grounding. “I just have to send a text—I’ll show it to you.”

John retrieved the phone from the pocket of his trousers and handed it over. The text Sherlock sent was short but by the time he had handed it back and John had read the message, Greg's ringtone was sounding.

MH, GL

John is considering early parole.

 

John drew his chin back and gave Sherlock another mystified look but he remained impassive.

The call was from Lestrade.

“Sherlock?”

“No, it’s me.”

“Oh, John. You can’t. Doesn’t matter what he’s told you or how he’s behaved, whatever you told him you were going to do, you’ve got to do. You have to finish it out to the bitter end. He knows it too, that’s why he sent the text. We’ve all been through this together, a dozen times and it just doesn’t work otherwise. Ask Mycroft.”

John hadn’t said a word and he thought Greg would just keep on, but the monologue was interrupted by a text from the devil himself.

John said, “Hold on, hold on a second, that’s him.”

I will be there in 13 minutes. JW is not to proceed until that time. Are you growing up, Little Brother ? MH

John gritted his teeth at his presumptuousness out of habit and erased the text. He walked over to the bedroom door and took Sherlock’s dressing gown off the hook, while he continued talking to Greg.

“Mycroft’s on his way. I’ll be in touch.”

Greg, relieved, said, “That’s ok then. He’ll fill you in. You’ve gotta know, for Sherlock to send that message means you’re a bloody miracle worker. He’s not the only genius in that flat. Cheers.”

He rang off before John could say another word. He handed the dressing gown to Sherlock and said, “At least it’s not both of them.”


	8. To Spank or Not to Spank?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's flare of maturity has interrupted the course of consequences. The British government arrives to provide John with data he needs to make his decision. It's not pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Tiaoconnell, I offer garlands of laurel and armfuls of lilies. Thanks pal. You're the best. 
> 
> If you're enjoying this, please let me know. Comments=love.

They went downstairs to wait and John started the kettle. Sherlock leaned on the mantel, looking out the window for the long black car. He stiffened and stood straight just as John brought the tray to the table. Mycroft appeared, soundlessly sliding through the door with his usual impeccable authority. John thought, _Did we leave it unlo--? Don’t want to know. ___

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“John. Sherlock.”

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Sherlock said nothing.

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“Mycroft.” said John, “Tea?”

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“Yes, thank you.” He walked to Sherlock’s chair and pointed at it with his umbrella. “I assume you won’t be using this,” he said, as he sat down.

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Sherlock flashed him a hostile look and John pointedly watched himself pouring the tea and succeeded in keeping a straight face. He fixed Sherlock a cup also, just to give him something to do with his hands, and delivered each one. Sherlock shook his head at his, but John left it on the mantel. On his way back to his chair, he casually picked up Mycroft’s letter and put it on his side table. He sat in his chair with his cup and asked, “What’s this all about then?”

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Mycroft put his cup down and twirled his umbrella. He looked at no one. “Thanks to Sherlock’s unprecedented maturity…” Sherlock snorted, and they ignored him, “we have been given the opportunity to avert disaster. You are unaware of the danger of your well-intentioned offer, John. Those of us who have preceded you in the endeavour to keep Sherlock clean, stand in admiration of your skill. We were never as successful as you have been in such a short period of time. However, in part due to our repeated failures, we did learn certain lessons the hard way, which we may now pass on to you. The most important of these is that the consequences for Sherlock’s behavior must be determined in advance and must be carried out at all costs, no matter what subsequent conditions may evolve. Sherlock, may I illustrate, with your assistance?”

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Sherlock turned with his eyes drawn up, lids closed, lips drawn into a frown. He projected his infuriated but resigned tolerance of the entire situation. Restraining his impatience, he said, “Oh, do just get on with it, Mycroft.”

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“Very well. How many times did I try to rehabilitate you? Include the spring of your first year at Oxford.”

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Sherlock shouted, “That wasn’t rehabilitation! You kept me locked in the house for three weeks! That was imprisonment!”

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John cleared his throat. He put down his tea and picked up the letter, folding it and unfolding it casually. He looked blandly at Sherlock, who took a sharp breath. He muttered, “Sorry. Go on.” John looked back at Mycroft and put the letter down.

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Mycroft rolled his eyes at him. _Do you see what I have to cope with?_

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“How many times, Sherlock?”

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“Five.”

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Mycroft looked at John. “Six. How many times with Lestrade?”

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Sherlock said, “Three. He was the best,” he continued spitefully. “Before John.”

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Mycroft took a sip of his tea, grimaced, and replaced it. “How many attempts did you make on your own?”

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Sherlock took a deep breath and even more quietly said, “Seven.”

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“And how many formal facilities were engaged?”

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“Five,” and with dudgeon, “but two of them were later placed under investigation, so I don’t think they should count.” He tilted his aristocratic nose upward. “Obviously, they didn’t know what they were doing.”

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John’s eyes widened and he looked back and forth between them.

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Mycroft continued, unimpressed. “Five facilities. What has been your longest period of abstention?”

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“Two years, 3 months and twenty-two days.” He looked at John a bit desperately. “But I wasn’t always an addict! Most of the time I just used casually.” He gestured casually with his six inch fingers. “Here and there.” John’s mouth was slightly open, his own cup was frozen three inches above the saucer.

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Mycroft drawled, “Yeeeees. How many times did you overdose?”

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Sherlock snuck a sideways glance at John and mumbled under his breath.

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Mycroft closed his eyes and tapped his umbrella on the floor like a headmaster with an impertinent student. “Louder, Sherlock, he can’t hear you.”

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He shot daggers at Mycroft and shouted again, “Only four! Because the two in 3rd form don’t count! Happy now?”

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“Six, Sherlock. You have been at the point of death six times.”

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Sherlock let out a snorting scoff and muttered, “…gross exaggeration…” looking at John for support but he had put his cup down and picked up the letter. John shook out the letter and refolded it, staring hard at Sherlock now. Sherlock looked away quickly.

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Mycroft tilted his head and in a singsong voice asked, “Did you want to stay clean?”

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“What do you mean, did I want to stay clean, of course I did, I wouldn’t have tried if I hadn’t wanted to, I just failed, that’s all.” he protested rapidly and half-heartedly.

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“Oh, tell the truth, Sherlock. I’m not here to admonish you. I’m quite impressed with your insight…and cooperation at the moment, actually,” he said wonderingly, “Now, be serious.” He tapped his umbrella sternly and Sherlock started. “Out of the twenty-one times there have been attempts at your rehabilitation, how many were conducted with wholehearted, fully invested, genuine efforts on your part to leave the drugs behind permanently?”

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With lukewarm bitterness, he said, “I don’t need your approval, Mycroft.” Then, “Eight.”

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“And, most pertinent to the current dilemma facing us, what did we determine to be the causal factor in the failures?”

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His head hanging dejectedly, he whispered, “Inconsistency in the implementation of parameters.”

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Mycroft gave John his reptilian smile, the one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s elaborate on that for the sake of the good doctor, shall we? How about an example from each of the therapeutic models, if you will—”

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Sherlock rallied and interrupted, “Therapeutic? Ha! That’s hyperbole. Prison camps, more like it.”

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Mycroft closed his eyes and continued, speaking over Sherlock, “Each of the responsible parties. Let’s start with me, so you can enjoy detailing the debacle of my first attempt, hmm?" He smiled again. John thought, _Snake? Komodo dragon?_

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"Where exactly did my arrogance lead us into ruin?”

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Sherlock smiled more warmly, leaned against the wall and folded his arms in great satisfaction. “You quoted the research on detoxification recommending 12 weeks’ abstention and treatment as the minimum necessary for the disruption of an addiction cycle.” He looked gleefully at Mycroft, then John. “After 6 weeks, I suggested that a subject with immeasurable intellectual capacity, such as myself, could hardly be expected to require as much time.”

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To John, Mycroft said, “I gave him parole. He didn’t last a week.” He turned back to Sherlock, “Would you say that the facilities were similar in their failure to keep to best practices?”

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Sherlock sneered. “You should have pressed for settlement with all of them, for breach of contract. Their stipulations were based on the ‘satisfactory response of client to intervention.’" He waved his hand airily. “If you said the right thing to your ‘counselor’, they increased your level of privilege. By the end, I had talked my way out by eight weeks. You were blue with rage the last time, Mycroft.” Sherlock looked delighted.

____

Mycroft closed his eyes, lifted his chin toward the ceiling and gritted his teeth. He gave Sherlock a stern look and straining to keep his voice calm, said, “Capacity, Sherlock, and intent. You were impaired at the time of the signing of all contracts and you did not enter into the agreement in good faith. It’s irrelevant.” He took a deep breath. “Tell us how Detective Inspector Lestrade failed you.”

____

“He didn’t!” Sherlock took a step forward with his fists clenched. John frowned at him. He began to spindle the letter, rolling and unrolling it. He tightened his lips and Sherlock retreated. “He didn’t. He didn’t realize…I didn’t know…” He paused and with more assurance, said, “It was new data. Without precedent. It was a successful experiment, with unexpected results, no one’s fault.” He pouted.

____

Mycroft took pity and said to him, “I will summarize. You can expound on the details later in private if you choose.” Sherlock turned to look out the window again and Mycroft spoke to John. “The Detective Chief Inspector discovered the efficacy of physical discipline in the context of a mutually respectful and…” he wrinkled his nose slightly, “affectionate relationship. And he added the incentive of access to crime scenes. He served as something of a benevolent authority figure, shall we say, and sought to leverage Sherlock’s need for approval,” Sherlock’s jerked around, but Mycroft continued “against his self-destructive behavior. A formal protocol of physical discipline was effective, to everyone’s surprise, but the emotional costs were significant and once again, all parties consented to a lessening of the previously agreed upon, penalties, let’s call them ”

____

Sherlock turned and spoke to the window. “He’d say forty and I’d break after fifteen and he’d quit at thirty. I instinctually taught myself to break more quickly. I'm convinced it was not deliberate. In fact, I believe it was contrary to my own best interests and sincere desire, but I couldn’t convince him to remain firm. He was overly sentimental.”

____

Mycroft said, “I’ve often wondered if his paternal role—”

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Sherlock whipped around and hissed at him, “Enough! I’m sure John is capable of drawing conclusions regarding the emotional implications involved without assistance, Mycroft. Especially from you.” Mycroft, nodded and with respectful discretion, looked away. John recognized the blush rising up Sherlock’s neck. He squirmed and looked at him. He forced himself to continue. “John. Please. You can’t be romantic about this. You are the sturdiest. Don’t let me manipulate you the way I have everyone else. You are stubborn and unrelenting, mulish to be honest, and that’s why I can trust you.”

____

Mycroft remained silent for a moment and then stood. “Indeed. Thank you for the tea, John,” he said, having tasted no more than his first sip. “And congratulations, Little Brother.” They both looked at him curiously and he clarified, “Day 50, is it not?” He left.

____

They made their way back to the bedroom and Sherlock took off his dressing gown. He handed it to John, who hung it back up. He paced nervously, bare-arsed while John deliberated, leaning against the back of the door. When he finally he reached a decision, he stuck out his chin and said, “Right, then. I see the point on the following through bit. You’re all correct. Even if you didn’t mean to, your brain would never stop trying to figure out a way to save your arse. If you thought you could wheedle me out of something, you would, you couldn’t help it. So we proceed with the spanking.” Sherlock had stilled and agreed with a fatalistic nod.

____

“I also don’t want to carry a grudge and it’s possible the next time you drive me mad, I’ll regret not having gone through with my spanking. But with the responsibility of carrying through with punishment, I also have the responsibility to judge its effectiveness. The purpose of this session was to make you more conscious of how your actions affect the people who love you and it’s clear to me that it’s been effective.”

____

“We haven’t had too much experience with that bloody cane either, so just like always, I decide how harsh to be. Sound fair?” He realized by asking Sherlock’s input, he was contradicting his own insistence on making all the decisions. But Sherlock had changed the terms of the agreement when he offered up new information and altered his responsibilities. _Am I gonna get this right? He’s counting on me. _John scrubbed his head in frustration. “Will you still respect me in the morning?”__

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Sherlock smiled halfway and stuck his hand out for a shake. “My arse is in your hands. I can’t believe I’m agreeing to my own thrashing,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. John snorted and replied, “Me neither.”

____

John needed to put himself back into the mindset of disciplinarian. It was going to take time and although he hated to do it, he had to put Sherlock back in the corner. The bickering with Mycroft would have upset Sherlock’s headspace as well. John held onto his hand and walked him very slowly towards the spot. After a few steps, when he realized where they were headed, Sherlock balked. “Wait, that’s not fair, John, I’ve already done more time than usual!”

____

He pulled back, but John tightened his grip and then took his other hand as well. Brilliantly, he managed to look stern and sympathetic at the same time, deep into Sherlock’s eyes. “I’m sorry, love, but I decide, remember? It seems unfair, I know. But it’s been an unusual day and we have to finish it up. There’s no way we can do it properly without getting into the proper frame of mind. I’m not ready, are you?” Sherlock’s forehead furrowed and he took a few seconds to think it through. He shook his head slowly. “Can you think of another way to settle yourself?”

____

Sherlock took another few seconds to think and said, “Not that isn’t off limits right now. I can’t play violin. I’ve written all the letters,” he said despairingly. John waited him out, and was rewarded. With a look of disgust, he walked himself the rest of the way to the corner and clasped his hands behind his back.

____

John said, “Ok then. Think about how terrible the rehab centers were and how you’d change them. While you’re doing that, I’m going to try to make myself back into that person you said you trusted.”

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Sherlock said, “John?” in his little voice and he walked over to him and took Sherlock’s hand.

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“Yes, love?”

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“Thank you.”

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John took a deep breath and squared his shoulders up. “You’re welcome.” Now he was the one pacing, talking himself up. _Sherlock was right. I’m a big softy. It’s for his own good. He knows it and I know it. He needs this and I have to be strong for him. _He resolved to go ahead with a plan very close to the one he’d had in the first place and got the paddle from the bureau drawer.__

____

____

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He hadn’t set the timer, because he hadn’t been sure how long he needed, so when he’d sturdied up his backbone sufficiently, he sounded the alarm tone and walked back to the chair. He said, “Ok, on to business, let’s get it over with.”

____

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Sherlock’s heart and shoulders sank when he turned around and saw the paddle on the floor next to the chair. “Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?”

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_Buck up soldier._ “You know why. Because the arrangement is working and you want to stay clean. Come on, over the knee.”

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Sherlock took the position over John’s lap again, but his erection was decidedly gone this time. John took a deep breath and said, “Five by paddle Sherlock, then twenty by hand. I want you to know that’s off by five from what I was planning on before and that’s what it will be. That’s only to set off the caning. I’m not cutting back because of your letter or because you were honest about the, you know, reprieve thing. We’ll figure out another way to reward you for making that decision.” Sherlock looked around at him with a soft face and nodded. John cupped his cheek with his hand for a moment.

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He cleared his throat, and firmly, said, “I want you to count this time. Then I’ll ask you a question and you’ll answer it. Are you ready?”

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Sherlock said, “Yes, sir.”

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“Why are you being punished?”

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“Because I frightened you.”

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John laid a steadying right hand on his back and let the paddle fall onto Sherlock’s left cheek.

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Sherlock inhaled sharply and counted, “One.”

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“Why was I frightened?”

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“Because you thought I was off to buy drugs again.”

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John gave him a matching blow on the right. Sherlock gasped, then cried out, “Two”.

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“How did I feel when I found you?”

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“You were angry.”

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The third blow landed across the center of his arse and John noted dispassionately that the welts now stood out against a field of rising pink. Sherlock’s respiration rate was rising and his voice already sounded desperate. “Three!”

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“And what else? What else was I feeling?”

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“And…happy?”

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John was irritated with the simplistic answer. He let number four fall a little heavier, below the last. Sherlock jumped enough for John to have to grab him a little tighter. “Ow! Ow, ow. Four!”

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“And what else?”

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Wriggling despite himself, Sherlock blurted, “Um, uh, I’m sorry, I don’t know!” This was a new level of punishment, being soundly spanked after a caning. His brain was going offline. John knew that Sherlock would have no doubt that the punishment hadn’t been watered down.

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Number five was directed low on his bottom and Sherlock bucked. The blows of the paddle over the stripes of the cane were making short work of his endurance. “Aah, aah, aah, five.” His tears had started and he was panting.

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John put the paddle down but he wasn’t satisfied. He snapped his hand down on the lowest arc of the delectable curves. Sherlock tensed and whimpered.

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“Sherlock, you’re not thinking. That’s an extra for being lazy. Work those new neurons.” It was hardly more than a tap, but he had a point to make. Having come this far, John was determined to make the misery as instructive as possible. It would be worth it if Sherlock thought twice before his next poor decision. “What kind of happy was it, when I found you where I left you, having been imagining you in an alley, up against a bin with a needle in your arm? This one is for making me relive it!” He gave him another light-handed smack, and Sherlock let out a moan.

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“Sorry, sorry, relieved, you were relieved!” He was twisting the duvet cover in his fists.

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The ache and sting were beginning to sink in and John knew Sherlock would break quickly.

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“Damn right I was relieved! When I saw you behind that desk, my heart…” John realized he was too angry to continue and took a few deep breaths.

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Between gasps, Sherlock stammered out, “You were right. You… you… you… were carrying a grudge."

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John cut off a laugh and gave him another. His cheeks were springing back under the blows despite the abuse being laid on them.

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Calm again, John asked, “Where were we?”

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Sherlock stuttered out, “Technically, according to my count, three, but according to your calculation, that would be number one.”

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“Over my lap is not a good place for you to be smart, idiot.” John let loose with three sharp slaps in a row, and said sardonically, “There, now we’re even.”

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Sherlock yelped and said, “Duly noted.”

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Exasperated with him now, John gave him another and asked, “Any more clever remarks?” Sherlock shook his head with gritted teeth, sniffling and whimpering.

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“All right then, what’s going to be different the next time you’re left under someone’s care?”

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“I’ll follow directions and stay where I’m put.”

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The next three spanks were sharper, as John realized that if Sherlock was still able to be a smart aleck, he wasn’t doing his job. They were up to six. “And what if it gets difficult for you while you’re there?”

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He was having trouble getting the words out now, trying to keep still and failing. “Ow, I… I’ll…call you.”

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Four more, alternating on each side to ten. The red lines of the caning were standing out less sharply against the pink rising from the paddling and spanking. Sherlock was clenching the cheeks of his arse and his legs were trembling.

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“Or?”

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Sherlock took 3 shuddering breaths and began to sob.

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“I’ll…ask…for help. I’m sorry. Very sorry.”

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“I know. I know you are. We’re almost finished now.” John examined him and rubbed Sherlock’s red, hot skin gently for a few seconds. Wishing he didn’t have to, he prepared himself for the final ten. Maybe he could offer a choice at least, to let Sherlock know he was feeling regretful about the necessity. Ordinarily, John didn’t ask for his input during a spanking, but this whole weekend had turned out differently from the usual expectations. _Sometimes, change is necessary. ___

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“This is the last bit, love. Do you want them spaced out or all at once?” John wasn’t sure he would be able to answer. “Do you want me to decide?”

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Sherlock shook his head quickly. “No…no…fast…fast as you can…I want it to be over. Quickly… please.”

____

John took a firmer hold on his waist, trying to keep him from jolting himself off. He knew he must be terribly sore, and ten more was going to be a struggle for him to bear. He didn’t need any more bruising to help him remember the lessons of the weekend. John let his hand spring off the firm muscles of his bum as fast as he could and the ten were over in that many seconds. He’d only just been able to hold him on his lap. The damage was clearly done, because Sherlock was limp and weeping and it sounded like a broken heart to John.

____

“Come on up here. There you go. I’ve got you.” He helped him up to sitting, making sure his arse was hanging over the edge of his lap and pulling his face into his shoulder. He rubbed his fingers through his hair and held him tight, murmuring meaningless sounds and comforting words while Sherlock cried. “It’s all right now, it’s all over and you were very brave. Go ahead and cry yourself out. As long as you need. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

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____

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That assurance brought on a brief spurt of harsher crying and John said, “I know you’re not keen on repetition, but I’m going to say it again anyway: I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere. You’re never going to get rid of me.” Sherlock grabbed him around the neck and John struggled for breath for a second. “Here, watch out, you’re gonna strangle me, you great gangly thing. Let me breathe.” Sherlock huffed out a teary laugh, and worked on getting himself together. Eventually he quieted down and John said, “Can we move to the bed for cuddling now, for your old, broken-down soldier? Give my shoulder a break.”

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Sherlock sat up a bit and said, “We don’t have to. I’m ok now.”

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John added just a touch of severity to his voice. “Not the way it works, Sherlock. I decide when the comforting is over. Up you get and to the bed.” He held on to his upper arm as he helped him up. Sometimes Sherlock was unsteady on his feet after a spanking, whether it was from the soreness or his wobbly frame of mind, wasn’t easy to tell. Whatever it was, he’d come close to falling once, and John wasn’t taking any chances. Sure enough, he swayed a bit and John stepped behind him and grabbed both arms. He didn’t point out that, in fact, Sherlock was _not _yet ok. “Careful.”__

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Sherlock knelt on the bed and laid down on his front, groaning from the pain. John went around to the other side of the bed and slid in beside him sitting with his back against the headboard, waiting for Sherlock to allow himself to ask for what he wanted. Eventually, he tugged on John’s shirt to get him to slide down until he was flat on his back. Sherlock threw an arm and a leg over him and crept imperceptibly across the bed until he was stretched full-length on top of him.

____

John smiled to himself and carded his fingers through the curls, rubbing up and down along his back. He looked over Sherlock’s poor tortured bottom and winced. As much as he wanted to stay on the bed until Sherlock was thoroughly relaxed, the doctor in him wanted to get the paracetamol and the aloe gel to help soothe away the pain that was only going to build over the course of the next 24 hours. Always difficult to balance the needs of the body and the mind with the ordinary human, but as always, Sherlock’s mind took precedence over its transport and John stayed put, soothing and gentling him. It had been a grueling weekend. In spite of John’s best intentions they fell asleep.

____


	9. Turnabout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spankings are over for Sherlock and now it's time for make-up sex!
> 
> WARNING AND SPOILER:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> After 8 chapters of having his ass whupped, poor Sherlock wants to top because anything else is gonna hurt. Also, John is happy to switch because he's exhausted, so skip this chapter if it's not your thing. Sherlock will be back on the bottom next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying these words, be sure to send virtual hugs to tiaoconnell, who continues to make them better than they would be without her. 
> 
> And just a reminder, comments keep writers writing...

Sherlock was still lying on top of him when he woke John up not much later with a low groan. He had hardly stirred, but even that subtle movement awakened the ache that was stalking him. John knew it wouldn’t only be his bottom that would be feeling the pain. A spanking engaged muscles that were rarely used. They would be strained from tensing up and moving in atypical ways. Sherlock’s whole body would be stiff and sore, some parts more than others, of course. John needed to get up and help start him healing. Besides that, he needed to pee. But the warm weight pinning him to the bed reminded him how much he had missed the feel of Sherlock’s solid physical body, the mass and contours of it. He used his hands to map him out again, to touch him, to satisfy his animal hunger for him.

His bladder would not be ignored, however. He stroked Sherlock’s warm shoulder and whispered, “Hey you. Let me up so I can go to the loo.” The only response was Sherlock burrowing more deeply into the crook of John’s neck with another little groan. He gave him a little shake and said, “Come on. I have to pee and I want to get you sorted before the pain gets worse.”

Sherlock sighed and started to roll off, but he froze when the pain registered. “Ow.” He looked indignantly at John as if it were his fault. _I suppose it is. To a certain degree._

John said, “Exactly. Slide over.” Sherlock moved gingerly off to the side while John lifted Sherlock’s arm from his chest. He wiggled out from under his leg and finally free, he drew the sheet up over his back. _Got to keep him warm._ On his way to the loo, he grabbed his robe.

He had to make two trips to carry everything necessary to initiate the recovery: the tablets, a tall glass of water, the tube of gel, a basin of cool water and a flannel. He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Sherlock’s cheek with his fingertips. When his eyelids fluttered open, John held the glass in one hand and the pills in the other. “Open up.” Sherlock stuck out his tongue and John dropped them. He held the glass up to his lips and Sherlock took a sip. John said, “No, finish it. You’re probably dehydrated.”

“You’re always fussing,” he grumbled out of a sense of duty to maintain his curmudgeonly status. John’s fussing was actually honey on his tongue.

John shook his head fondly, recognizing the façade for what it was. “That’s my privilege, isn’t it? Drink up while I take care of your bum. Are you cold?”

“No, mother.” He couldn’t see it, but John was pretty sure there was an eyeroll accompanying his statement. He’d expect nothing less and he smiled to himself. When Sherlock finished, John took the glass and set it aside.

“Oi. What have I told you about sarcasm with a sore arse?” He would have given said arse a pinch, but when he drew back the sheet, he winced and thought better of it. It was an overall red shade, more startling against the background of his otherwise creamy skin. There was purple bruising and some areas were mottled and blotchy where hand had overlapped paddle had overlapped cane. The welts were still raised.

Sherlock had his head turned around and caught the look. He said, “That bad?”

John frowned and said, “’Fraid so. Worst ever. Should we start taking photos so you can compare data?” He was joking, but Sherlock perked up a bit at the thought. John gave him a frustrated look and said, “No, idiot, you’re supposed to say, ‘Not necessary, Captain, this will be the last time I ever need a thrashing because I’m going to be on my best behavior from now on. I’ve learned my lesson.’”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Oh. Right. Of course. Of course. I’ve learned my lesson. But maybe we should take photos anyway, just to remind me,” he said innocently. Sherlock found the idea of his sore arse very erotic. Not at the time of the actual soreness of the arse, but later it could be quite intriguing: remembering the sexual tension surrounding the event, knowing it was John who’d made it sore, that no one else would see this part of him, of them, that it didn’t always have to hurt quite so much... He locked eyes with John for a few fraught seconds.

John stood up and muttered to himself, “I can’t believe I’m going to do this.” Honestly, he didn’t mind Sherlock’s sore arse in the abstract either. Especially when he didn’t have to be the only responsible grown-up in the room. Then to Sherlock, he said, “You know that if we do this, there’s no way on earth Mycroft’s not going to get his hands on them, right?”

Sherlock, chin propped up on his fists, weighed the statistical probabilities. John stood waiting, hands on hips. Finally, Sherlock pronounced the verdict, “Necessary risk, John. Science. We need a self-printing camera for future…events. Of course the very existence of photos might cloud the results in the sense that the effects of the actual punishment may be conflated with the…”

John let him pontificate while he clicked away with his mobile. Whatever might distract Sherlock from his discomfort was worth suffering through. He threw in an occasional “Uh-huh” and “I see” to keep the theorizing flowing smoothly.

“You’re not listening to me at all, John.”

“You’re mistaken, my brilliant boy. I am listening to you, just closely enough to keep you prattling on.” He put the mobile down, wondering if he knew how to password protect the photos. _Against a Holmes? Be serious._ He prepared the flannel. “Now, this is going to hurt at first, but I promise it will help.” He judged the temperature of Sherlock’s skin with the back of his hand and wrung out the cloth, placing it as gently as he could across the cheeks of his bum.

Sherlock jerked away and hissed through his teeth. “That hurts!”

“I thought you hated repetition.” John rubbed his lower back and said, “Give it a minute. Explain about the conflating bit.”

Sherlock took off on his thesis once again. John congratulated himself on his bedside manner with an internal smirk. As the heat of Sherlock’s skin leached the coolness from the cloth, he refreshed it from the basin and kept on until he judged that it was at least a few degrees cooler than before. He was treating the damage as a burn and didn’t want the gel to trap any heat that could interfere with the healing. He laid a whispery kiss on each cheek and resisted the temptation to cup them in his hands. _They fit so perfectly. Just a little squeeze… Steady, soldier. Time enough for that later,_ he thought.

He squeezed a generous amount of gel onto each round, pink, pillowy globe. With a feather-light touch he spread the gel out to the edges of the discolored skin, while Sherlock took deep breaths and made whining noises. When John had finished admiring the color, he replaced the cloth and said, “I’m going to massage around it now. If we can increase the blood flow, it’ll speed the healing and reduce the swelling.”

Sherlock grinned back at him and said, “You’re the doctor.” They were both starved for touch, but it pained Sherlock more.

The side of John’s mouth quirked into a half smile and he said, “Funny how you only think so when it’s agreeable to you. Not when I tell you it’s time to eat or sleep.” He grabbed some lotion from the night table and warmed it up in his hands. He straddled Sherlock’s legs and started with light strokes on the backs of his thighs. He gradually increased the pressure until he was kneading the muscles. When he found a knot he focused on it, sliding his thumbs over it and around it, until he could feel it start to soften and break up. When the hamstrings were loose, he ran his palms over Sherlock’s sharp hipbones and skipped over the bruises. They made him feel guilty, despite knowing their necessity. He dug his thumbs into the cords of his lower back on either side of his spine but Sherlock started up with a gasp.

John pulled off. “Sorry, I didn’t realize how tense you’d be. I’ll go easier.” True to his word, John stroked the muscles, trying to warm them up and then increasing the pressure gradually. As they relaxed, he moved upward on the back and then across the shoulders until Sherlock was practically purring.

It was the sounds he was making, more than anything else that started stirrings in John’s groin. He knew those noises. He was the only one who got to hear them. They were the words that Sherlock couldn’t, wouldn’t speak: I trust you; only you can touch me; thank you; I love you. John shifted to accommodate the tension between his legs and to reach back down to Sherlock’s waist and lower back. He started using his fingertips to focus on the areas that were still tense. The rhythmic pressure would either put Sherlock to sleep again, or--wake him up.

After a few minutes, Sherlock started to shift his hips from side to side. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he said in his lowest register.

John smiled and said, “Whatever do you mean?” His attempt to sound innocent failed spectacularly. Sherlock lifted up onto his hands and knees and John saw that his massage was having exactly the consequences he was pretending not to have intended. “Oh, I see. Hmm. As your doctor, I might have to examine you a little more carefully. Determine the cause of that swelling and prescribe a course of treatment.” He started to run his hands up and down the lengths of Sherlock’s thighs, from back to front, right up to the crease of his hips. The contrast between the firm muscles of his thighs and the soft swell of his inner thighs was worth exploring in depth, but there would be time for that later. He went precisely no further.

Sherlock tilted his hips in hope of directing John’s fingers, but his surgeon’s hands were confident and precise. They continued back down, trailing along the calves and smoothing along the arches of those long thin feet. Sherlock wriggled his toes and sat himself back on his heels, squeezing his thighs together in search of more stimulation, but John pushed him back up onto all fours and continued stroking almost everywhere he could reach, everywhere except for where Sherlock wanted it most. John could see him starting to clench all the muscles he’d been working so hard to relax. He was rocking back and forth a little now.

Through gritted teeth, Sherlock said, “Isn’t teasing punishment, John? I thought we were through with that.”

“You’re muddled. Teasing is part of the reward.” John ghosted his fingers over the tender skin of his arse, bringing up chills all over the rest of him. He continued to provoke. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a nap? Rest might be the best thing for you and your arse right now, you know. Speaking as your doctor.”

Sherlock’s skin was crawling with need and he was moving restlessly, searching for contact. “Shut up and touch me.” The pent-up tension roughened his voice.

“Oh, all right. Bossy.” John reached around Sherlock’s waist and rubbed the flat of his palm delicately across the tip of his cock where fluid had started to drip. He swallowed and sucked on his lower lip. Sliding his hand down, he reached bottom and made a loose ring of his thumb and middle finger. With the lightest of touches, he dragged it up and down. He was careful not to lean his hips and legs against Sherlock’s sore parts, but he couldn’t keep his erection from gently sliding up against the top of the crease of Sherlock’s arse where it met his lower back. Sherlock gasped when he felt it and dropped down flat on the bed. He was desperate for John, but on all fours, the potential for pain threatened and he panicked.

“Stop! Stop, John, this won’t work. Wait.” Sherlock panted. John pulled away immediately and let his head drop back. He grunted in frustration.

“Ugh, Sherlock! Stop. Go. More, less--make up your mind already.” He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds and it was silent but for their deep, rapid breathing. He reminded himself it was Sherlock’s turn to choose.

When he caught his breath, he said, “What do you want?” John cleared his throat and said, “It’s your show, Sherlock. Tell me what to do” After a grounding, the arrangement specified that Sherlock could dictate the terms of the reconciliation sex. He was the one who had suffered most through the drought. It was a tease, being bare-arsed over John’s lap, struggling to avoid arousal, at least at the beginning of the spanking. Sherlock was strictly hands-off; John had still had the shower, after all. And it was a relief for him to let Sherlock take charge after days of emotionally draining decision-making. It was a balancing act; trying to help Sherlock understand the facts of the punishment, to help him accept it, learn from it and to keep him stable. Caring for him afterward. The physical aspects were taxing as well. He was ready for a break and willing to follow Sherlock’s lead.

“Move.”

Sherlock gave him a little push with his foot and rolled over onto his side, propping up his head on his elbow. From under half-closed lids, he looked John up and down appraisingly. John could practically hear the furious sorting of “Sex with John” data going on in the Mind Palace. As his eyes flitted all over him, John slid his robe off his shoulders and awaited the results of the survey. A lift of the eyebrow, a twitch of the lip and the declaration was made. “I can’t lie down, and I can’t sit. I can kneel and I can stand. Let’s start with standing.” John’s tongue poked out and he scraped his lower lip with his teeth. Sherlock sidled over to the edge of the mattress and stood up. He winced a little and stretched his head and arms back.

John was thrilled to be able to feast his eyes on the naked entirety of him: the endless arms and legs, white skin, pink nipples, ribcage a little less prominent after days of regular meals. It had been an exercise in self-discipline to keep their interactions chaste, for both of their sakes. Now he ran his thumb over his lower lip and asked, “Where do you want me?”

Sherlock walked over to the wall beside the bedroom door, watching John over his shoulder, halfway between coy and predatory. He rumbled, “On your knees.” John swallowed. When Sherlock reached the wall, he interlaced his fingers behind his head. He reached his arms up towards the ceiling, like a cheetah waking from a nap. His hips thrust forward with the motion and his erection bobbled back and forth, leaving a wet spot on his stomach. He leaned back against the wall and spread his feet shoulder-width. John stared, sliding his hands up and down the sides of his legs. _Exhibitionist._ Sherlock cocked his head and said, “Well?”

John untangled himself from the sheets and gracelessly managed to find the floor with his feet. He was feeling very warm suddenly and stripped off his shirt, leaving it on the floor. Sherlock made a clicking noise and said chidingly, “Not very tidy, John.” He was rolling his neck and shoulders now.

“Oh, sorry, yeah,” John said, and took a darting look at the floor, snapping his eyes back to Sherlock, as soon as he had it in hand. He dropped it on the bed properly this time and started on the rest of his clothing.

Sherlock watched him just as intently, sighing in pleasure as his bottoms revealed him to be just as hard as he was. He catalogued his John: compact figure, well-defined muscles of his thighs, gold and silver hair on his chest…

John tried to drop the trousers onto the bed, but he missed and was forced to look away from Sherlock again. “Got it. Got it.” When he looked back, Sherlock’s left hand was cupping his bollocks and gently rolling them back and forth.

John said, “I’ll do that.” and he walked quickly, bumping into the corner of the bed on his way, until he reached him. He took hold of Sherlock’s face and leaned in until their erections nudged up against each other. He tilted his chin up and the denial of the last 4 days surged into an open-mouthed inhalation of a kiss, as if he could make up for the deprivation by sucking the oxygen from Sherlock’s body. His put-on haughtiness dissolved into a rush of grabbing and groaning and sucking, just as desperate to consume John.

The noises were as arousing as the physical contact, the sound of tasting and licking and sucking. John slid his hand down Sherlock’s neck, around his shoulder and over his ribs, touching each one the way Sherlock fingered the strings of his violin. He dipped into the indentation between his belly and the curve of his hip and replaced Sherlock’s hand with his own. The skin on his bollocks was silky soft contrasting with the wiry curls he could tangle with his thumb. He did the same tangling in the hair on his head, scratching his scalp, softly enough that Sherlock trapped John’s hand up against the wall, turning from side to side, trying to increase the pressure. _Just like a big cat,_ John smiled to himself.

He let go of Sherlock’s hair and moved his hand down his spine and cupped the cheek of his arse, feeling the heat and remembering the colors now caught in the photos on his phone. He purred into his ear, “Sherlock. You know what daddies tell their naughty little boys before they spank them?” Sherlock writhed, whimpering with the delicious shame of the words coming from John’s mouth. John nibbled on his throat. “Do you?”

Sherlock gasped, “No, John. Aaaaah…aaaah…”

John licked over the spot he’d nibbled. “They say, ‘this will hurt me more than it hurts you.’ It’s the truth. Not being able to touch you like this? It hurts.” He reached behind and stroked Sherlock’s arse, still warm to the touch, hard enough to register somewhere between pleasure and pain. Sherlock drew away and his cock rubbed up against John’s belly. As he pulled back to frot again, his arse slid up against John’s strong hands and he rode the wave of sensations, in front and behind.

Sherlock tilted his chin back and John nuzzled his face, then rubbed his cheek and nose on the skin of his throat. He breathed deep the smell of him, revelling in the slight tang of sleepy sweat. It notched up his desire and tempted him to taste and he lapped up the saltiness with the flat of his tongue. He left a trail right up the line of his pulse to the soft hollow behind his ear, between jaw and skull. It was a fail-proof trigger point, and Sherlock inhaled sharply, making a whistling sound that was John’s cue. He licked and sucked, knowing that Sherlock would squirm in embarrassment and arousal at the sloppy, wet sounds. It was a triumph, to know that he was the one wringing the reactions out from under that exterior, usually so cold and forbidding.

The tickling brought up goosebumps on the skin of Sherlock’s hip and John teased the fine hair with his fingertips. He outlined the shell of Sherlock’s ear, brushed his lips over his temple, and then lowered his knees to the floor. He had denied himself even a look for the last four days and he felt like he was coming home. His hands met lightly around Sherlock’s back. He looked up to watch his face as he laid his forearms across the backs of his thighs. He held his arse, surely and confidently enough so that Sherlock knew he was owned, possessed, being handled by an expert.

The shiny smear on Sherlock’s belly caught his eye and John maneuvered his chin around Sherlock’s erection, making sure to let the stubble on his cheek scrape gently against the hot skin. He kissed and licked at the wet patch noisily, blush spreading from Sherlock’s cheeks to his throat and down onto the pale skin of his chest. When Sherlock’s belly was clean, John turned his attention to the source of the stickiness. He rubbed his forehead, nose, cheeks, lips, all over Sherlock’s groin, inhaling the scent of his arousal, deeper and richer here.

Sherlock stretched his arms down to lay his hands on the top of John’s head. He ran his fingertips over everything he could reach, his hair, ears, the line of his jaw, trying to add the tactile contours to the visual map of John that he kept on the wall of his wing in the Mind Palace. John turned his head and rubbed his face against the palm of Sherlock’s hand. He caught one of his fingers in his mouth and sucked, hard. He pulled almost all the way off slowly, then opened wider and took in another, licking and leaving them dripping when he let go of them. Sherlock whimpered, not sure where to put that memory.

John shifted his concentration to the slit of Sherlock’s cock and alternated between broad swipes and tiny pointed licks with the very tip of his tongue. The fingertips of his right hand traveled lightly over Sherlock’s arse and he laid the other on the front of Sherlock’s thigh. He gripped the base of his cock as he opened his mouth and lowered his head to take as much of him in as he could. “Aaah!” Sherlock’s hips jerked forward and John let him in deeper. As soon as Sherlock gave him room, he slowly bobbed his head up and down. He alternated between sliding his tongue along the bottom and sucking gently as he moved up and down. He had a lovely rhythm going when all of a sudden, Sherlock grabbed his hair and pulled him off. “Stop.”

John frowned and gave a disapproving, “Hmmm.” He looked up at him. “Again? Something wrong with my technique?”

Sherlock caught his breath and said, “On the contrary. You’re an overachiever. As usual. I don’t want to finish like this and I don’t want to finish too soon.”

John grinned. “All right. Do you have a plan?”

All of Sherlock’s bravado left him and he stuttered, “Could we…” He looked away. “I’d like to…if it’s ok…I was kind of looking forward…maybe, you know if it’s all right…to… ”

John lifted his eyebrows and said, “If you can’t think of anything, I can just keep on—” and he stuck out his tongue like he was trying to catch a falling snowflake.

Sherlock blurted out, “Fucking. You. I’ve been thinking about, you know, penetration. Fucking you. Since this,” he waved his hand around vaguely, “whole thing started.” He touched his upper lip with his tongue. John just smiled and waited, making him work for it. For all his brilliance and sophistication, he was still shy and fumbling when it came to his own desires. He’d come a long way, but John kept trying, hoping to get him to open up and enjoy himself more freely. But he also enjoyed teasing him. _He’s so fucking adorable. Like he’s asking for a sweetie._

Sherlock closed his eyes and finally said, “I can’t think of any way for you to fuck me that wouldn’t hurt my arse. And I want to fuck you John. Please? Let me fuck you?”

John reached up and grabbed his hand. He stood up and pulled Sherlock to the bed. He crawled up onto it on his hands and knees and said, “Took you long enough. Lube’s in the drawer. Hurry up.” Sherlock rummaged around and grabbed the bottle. He snicked up the lid and poured a generous amount onto his fingers. He spread it upwards from John’s perineum, over his hole and to the top of the cleft where his spine began. He ran his middle finger up and down, and up and down until John looked back with his tongue peeking out to moisten his lips. He pushed back against him. “Hurry. I’ve been waiting four days.”

Sherlock felt a surge of power knowing he was needy and wanting him. His cock throbbed in a feedback loop synchronized with John’s desire. He teased him, shaking his head slowly, but he kept his finger moving. “Noooo. That’s not true. Not exactly, John. You’ve been taking showers that are approximately 12 minutes longer than usual, and since I believe the universe is rarely that lazy, I would say that it is no coincidence that 12 minutes is the average time it takes you to have one of those wanks you think you’re having surreptitiously. I’m the one who’s actually been waiting, rather stoically, I might add, and now I’m going to take my time.”

He leaned down and kissed each side of John’s lower back and the dimples below. Sherlock held the curve of his arse and relished the feel of it filling his hand, his fingers reaching just to the top of John’s thigh. The fine hair tickled the palm of his hand. The firm muscles resisted the pressure of his fingers, but he squeezed anyway. With his fingertip he traced the trail of lube. Deciding John wasn’t slicked up enough, he slathered more on top of it. John started moving his hips, chasing his fingers, but Sherlock laughed and kept them just out of reach. The mischief was a pleasure of its own, but Sherlock still had inhibitions he struggled to overcome. John may have resisted acknowledging his homosexuality, but Sherlock still had trouble acknowledging any sexuality at all.

John puffed out “God, you’re cruel, stop messing about.” and lowered his head to the bed and wagged his arse in circles, trying to entice Sherlock into entering him. He growled, “Come on. Come on. You’re taking too long.”

“Such impatience, John. I’m surprised.” Stroking just lightly enough to spread the lube without actual contact, he said, “You’re always lecturing me about impulse control and deferral of gratification, but look at you, you can’t even hold still. What kind of role model are you for me?” He squeezed his arse again and John pushed back against him.

Sherlock took pity and on his next pass over the ring of muscles on the rim, he applied some pressure, watching how they stretched and took in his finger. John huffed sharply and Sherlock pulled out, afraid he might still somehow be going too quickly. John turned around to look at him, and said, “Go on already, you’re not going to break anything.” Sherlock smiled at him. John wanted this. With more confidence now, he pushed in, up to his first knuckle, moving in and out. John breathed, “More. More. More,” with every stroke.

John tried to take hold of himself but Sherlock grabbed his wrist and place his hand back on the bed. He leaned over John’s back and said, “This time, it’s my turn. Please?” He dragged the tips of his fingers lightly over the skin of John’s arms, tickling over his ribs, across his belly and then wrapping his fingers around his cock gently himself, still pushing in and out, but now giving his finger a little twist. The double stimulus brought out a gasp from John.

“Fuck, Sherlock. What are you waiting for?”

Sherlock still marveled that he, he, could bring John to the edge. That his attention could take his breath away. “Mmm. It’s been a while, you know. I want to be sure you’re really ready. I wouldn’t want you to wind up with a sore arse or anything.” He let go and gave John’s ass a swat, and then a pinch. John jerked away at the sensation and Sherlock’s finger popped out. “Oh no! We’ll have to start again!”

John buried his face in the mattress and his back shook, but Sherlock couldn’t tell if he was groaning or laughing. He was nervous for a moment, afraid he’d gone too far. Until John turned around, trying to suppress his smile, saying, “Look, I don’t think you’re trying to get me off, I think you’re trying to get revenge, and that’s not on. So if you’re going to fuck me, fuck me already. I’m getting boooooorred.” He couldn’t quite pull off Sherlock’s baritone.

It was all fine; they were still playing. “Oh, all right. Bossy.” Sherlock devoted his laser-like attention to John’s arsehole, dripping more lube onto his hand and reestablishing his first finger quickly. He sped up when he was able to slide the second inside along the first and John gave him a lovely moan as encouragement. He twisted them and began scissoring slowly drawing the fingers out to stretch the rim. When they had relaxed sufficiently, Sherlock added a third finger, triangulating them to simulate the width of the cock that would be entering soon. John groaned, “That’s it, I’m ready. Go ahead. Use your cock now. I want you inside me. God, hurry up!”

It was Sherlock’s turn to moan. John knew that being given permission to do these filthy things stroked something Sherlock kept deep and hidden. He grabbed the lube again and covered his swollen cock. He leaned forward and let it slide between John’s firm round cheeks, teasing his hole with the crown. John responded my moving his arse, trying to catch Sherlock and push back on him for the penetration he was hungry for. Finally Sherlock couldn’t wait anymore either. He was already so close. He grabbed John’s hips, stilling him so that he could find his mark. When the head caught on the ring of muscle, he leaned forward and John pushed back and they both groaned at the inverse pressure, John opened, Sherlock compressed. When he was firmly seated, Sherlock looked down in wonder. He spoke as if he were in church. “My body is inside your body. I’m inside of you.” John looked back at him with a soft smile. “It’s not the first time, you berk.”

Sherlock pulled back achingly slowly, watching himself slide out, then in, shaking his head in mild disbelief. “Yes, but… how did this happen? I’m a ridiculous man… I don’t understand how… The point is … I never expected to be with anybody… certainly not with…”

John was now quite concerned that Sherlock’s metaphysical introspection would completely derail the orgasm train they had been waiting for, so he rolled over quickly, letting Sherlock slide out. Sherlock moaned in disappointment, but John just giggled at him. He pulled Sherlock down into a fierce, open-mouthed kiss, partly because he was desperately starved for his mouth, and partly to shut him up. When he was certain that Sherlock had regained his focus, he let go of the tongue he was sucking and said, “In fact, now that I’m here…” He looked down at his cock, waving proudly and dripping onto his belly, “why don’t you take care of me first, then you can take all the time you like.”

Sherlock reopened his eyes, said, “Yes, John,” in a voice hushed with excitement. John grabbed one of the pillows and handed it to him. Sherlock slid it under John’s hips as he lifted himself up. He spread his legs and gave Sherlock a stern look. “I’m knackered, so if you want this, you’re going to have to do all the work. And once you’re done with that, you can have your way with me,” He teased and waggled his eyebrows.

Sherlock got down to business. He was quiet, his focus fixed on the prominence rubbing up against his stomach. He pushed up and back off John and had to swallow. His mouth was watering. It was rosy pink against the tan of his belly and he couldn’t wait to get his lips around it. “Now that’s a plan. You first because, I’m not going to last anyway. I’ve missed you.” And he dropped his head, mouth open, eyes fixed on him. John groaned and reached down to tangle his fingers in Sherlock’s hair.

“Christ, your mouth.” _How does he manage to look angelic and debauched at the same time?_

s

Sherlock groaned back at him and the sound added another level of stimulation that sent John’s hips thrusting upward. Sherlock opened wider and slid down as far as he could go. He pulled back and dragged his tongue up along the underside. John gripped his hair tighter and said, “Don’t stop. Fuck, Sherlock…Faster, faster...”

Sherlock did as he was told, faster, more, and their eyes met again. Love and longing combined to tear through John, overwhelming him and he had to look away. Sherlock practically buzzed around him and John’s legs started to tremble. Sherlock brought his lips all the way up and nuzzled at the head, ending with a lick at the slit. John pushed Sherlock’s head back down, fucking his mouth and John thrust his hips up. Louder now, “Again, aaah, I’m gonna come, that’s it, that’s it--” and Sherlock sucked. John stiffened and thrust one more time. He shouted, “AAaaaaah, fuck, Sherl—“ and he came as Sherlock swallowed, staring up into John’s eyes, black pupils crowding out the blue. He slid up and down, drawing out every drop and licking every last bit up. The sight of it made John dizzy. He finally pulled him off, panting and flinching at the overstimulation.

Sherlock laid his head on his thigh and held him softly in his hand, never losing eye contact. John laughed breathlessly and said, “Come here, you.” He pulled his hair gently and Sherlock scrambled up. John was still hungry for him and they kissed deeply, John tasting himself on Sherlock’s tongue. They dipped and swirled their tongues enjoying their access to one another Sherlock’s cock was throbbing against John’s thigh. After a while, John pushed back on his shoulders. “Hey. I love you. I’ve missed you. Now I really need some fucking to happen here, so hurry up and fuck me, or else I’m going to go to sleep.” He lay back on the bed with his hands behind his head, the picture of lazy, satisfied lust.

Sherlock braced himself up on his hands raked his eyes over John, the flush on his cheeks, neck, and chest, the sheen of sweat across his brow, lips open, tinted red from fiery kisses. He sat back and slid his fingers down over his ribs and the still firm muscles of his stomach. When he was sitting between his knees, Sherlock pushed his ankles up and John let his knees drop open. Sherlock took hold of his cock to make sure he was slick enough to pick up where he left off.

Up and down, he gave himself a single stroke, but having John in his mouth made him harder than ever, and he was afraid he would come before he even started. He let go with a shiver. John watched him, propping himself up on his elbows. His tongue poked out of the side of his mouth and slid over his lower lip. On the premise that there is no such thing as too much lube, Sherlock opened the tube and squirted some more onto his fingers. He moved closer and let one skim up and over John’s entrance, still widened from his earlier attentions.

John hummed and tilted his hips a little bit higher and Sherlock pushed in gently, then further, then deeply. He twisted around a bit, but John looked down at him, flinching a little and said, “Careful there. No need to worry about finding the spot. I’m played out. You go on and enjoy yourself.”

Sherlock nodded and said, “I just want to make sure you’re ready. Don’t want the both of us waddling around tomorrow, do we?” John closed his eyes and dropped his head back with a groan. Sherlock smirked, enjoying being on the other side of the teasing for a change. Another finger eased its way in alongside the first and John shifted on his arse, adjusting to the stretch, not burning but stinging just a bit. “You see. You’ll thank me later.” In fact, he could see John’s hamstrings tensing up as Sherlock’s fingers continued, gently but relentlessly.

_Smug bastard._

Sherlock continued the motion, spreading his fingers gently as they withdrew. The deeper breathing he heard let him know it was working to loosen him. He could feel John letting go. Four more strokes, five, in, out and John shivered his approval. A third finger followed and John tightened up momentarily. Sherlock paused and let the muscles of the rim relax around him. He ran his hand up the John’s leg, helping to soothe him further. When he saw him settle back softly on to the mattress, he started again and after a few moments, John ordered him, “Now. I’m ready.”

Sherlock felt a tickling chill run up his spine and answered him gruffly. “Me too.” He slid his fingers out and grabbed himself firmly at the base of his erection. He was on a hair trigger. He sat up and pushed back on John’s thighs, hanging one leg over his shoulder and shuffling forward to line up the crown of his cock with John’s greedy hole. He tried teasing just a bit but when he looked at him, sprawled and boneless now, he realized he was teasing himself. In one controlled move he sank in as deep as he could go.

His body reacting, despite the preparation, John sucked in a breath and arched his back, pushing forward to meet him. He opened his eyes wide, pupils black and locked eyes with Sherlock. He held still, suspended, then dropped back, sighing in pleasure and relief. Sherlock grinned victoriously, happy he’d taken his time. He savoured the liquid heat surrounding him. His John, gripping him, enveloping him in sweet friction. He pulled back and John moaned at the emptiness left behind. “Again, hurry. Feels good, Sherlock, go on.”

Sherlock took another look at him for reassurance that he was content and then dedicated himself to his own gratification. He picked up John’s other leg and scrambled forward so both of them were hanging over his shoulders. The rhythm he began was slow and deep and allowed him the thrill of breaching John over and over again. Then, his pent up desire overwhelmed him and he jerked back and snapped forward, his hips slapping against John’s arse. John rocked in sync with him, offering no resistance, welcoming the waves washing over him, happy to let Sherlock take him along for the ride. He crooned, “Oh, yes, aah…” and it liberated Sherlock to chase his pleasure, fast and hard. He had satisfied his lover and had nothing to prove.

He felt the beginning of his orgasm like an ember glowing at his center and the flame grew with every lift and plunge. He ratcheted up the pace and drove forward, knowing how close he was and revelling in it. Distantly he heard John’s encouragement, “That’s it, yes, come now, I’ve got you,” and it loosened a knot of hesitancy (shame?) secreted away somewhere inside him. When it flared up, he was consumed from the inside out. He called out, “John! My John. Mine.” The truth of the words sent the pleasure radiating to the ends of every nerve. He trembled with the strength of it. John nursed him through, clenching around him and wringing more spasms out of him. He reached for his shoulders. The motion drew another ripple of sensation out of Sherlock and he shuddered as if he’d had a chill. With the irrational urge to keep him warm, John pulled him close.

When he could reach it, John held his head and smeared his lips across Sherlock’s face. Heaving and winded, he put up no resistance. John raided his mouth while he came back to himself. When the last of the tremors passed through him and he had softened enough to slip out of John, Sherlock lifted himself up on his hands and looked at him in awe. “That was almost worth waiting for.”

John laughed and reached around to his bum. He gave him a tiny smack and said, “What did I tell you about smart mouth and sore arse, idiot?” Sherlock yelped and then raided him back.

The exhaustion hit John suddenly and Sherlock felt him drifting away. He considered retrieving a wet flannel from the loo, but his own exhaustion dissuaded him. He groped around for the shirt that John had so helpfully placed on the bed. He softly wiped him clean of lube and come and then did the same for himself. When he was finished, he tossed the shirt into the corner. He sprawled across John, laying tiny kisses everywhere he could reach. The last one brushed his temple, then he whispered in his ear, “I’m your idiot, though, aren’t I?”

John tangled his fingers in his hair and whispered back, “For always.”


	10. Back in Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for reconciliation. John makes Sherlock hand-deliver all his letters of apology, which is far more difficult than enduring physical torture, but better for the soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to everyone for the long delay. The boys ran away from me. I had to add an extra chapter! 
> 
> Please comment if you enjoy this at all. It's so very affirming. 
> 
> Tiaoconnell! All kudos to me are ricocheted directly to Tiaoconnell for her impeccable beta-ness!

Lestrade had said he needed Sherlock bright and early Monday morning and, being the sort of detective who could function on no sleep, he popped up on the stroke of six and took a shower. Before he woke John, Sherlock made tea and toast and brought it to the bedroom. He wanted to make it as easy for him as it could be, given how worn out he was. “John, wake up.” Soldier’s instincts had him awake and alert immediately, although seeing Sherlock with breakfast on a tray left him as disorientated as if he were still dreaming.

“Is that, is that toast? And tea?” He gazed up at Sherlock with fuzzy adoration. “What a lovely dream.”

Indignation in his tone, he said, “Really, John. It’s not that unbelievable, is it? I do make you breakfast on occasion. Periodically. Sporadically.” As soon as he put the tray on the night table, John grabbed him and pulled him on top of him. Sherlock put up half-hearted resistance.

“I apologize. It’s a lovely breakfast.” He snogged him and Sherlock relented. He held the kiss, licking into John’s mouth, and nipping his lower lip. “Ow. Do we have time for a little something?”

“It’s a case, John! You barely have time for a shower. If you didn’t stink, I’d make you skip it. Hurry up and eat your toast.”

“Such a charmer, you are,” he muttered before shoving Sherlock off him. He grabbed a piece of toast. “Open.”

Sherlock opened his mouth unconsciously, like a baby bird, then scowled when he realized what he was doing. He ate it anyway.

“Did you have tea?” He picked up the mug and held it to Sherlock’s lips. He glared and drank. “Did you take your paracetamol?”

“Oh, GOD, John! We have a CASE! Get up! Go take your shower!”

“What time is it anyway? Six o’clock? Sherlock! What time did Greg tell you he was going to get there?”

“Irrelevant. He always leaves my case notes in the bottom right drawer in a red folder.”

“He’s not going to like you rummaging through his desk.”

“If that were true he wouldn’t repeat such an obvious pattern, would he? He knows I know where he keeps them.”

John sighed and gave up. He held out toast for him again, then took a bite himself. They finished up and John went to take his shower.

Sherlock shouted after him, “No wanking in there! I’m timing you!” John made a very rude gesture at him behind his back. On his way out, he grabbed the tablets and another glass of water. He gestured with his chin and Sherlock opened his mouth again. John popped the tablets in.

“What are you going to wear? Do you have anything that will give you a little space behind?”

Sherlock deflated a little, maintaining his arrogance by a hair’s breadth. “Once the game is on, I won’t be paying any attention to the transport, John.”

_That means no. We’re going to have get something fitted a little looser. For the next time. If there is one. When there is one._ John sighed and tilted his head dubiously, but kept his voice neutral. “Maybe the summer suit. Silk.” _Anything but the wool._

Sherlock’s eyebrows flickered upwards, acknowledging the sense of it.

“Before you put anything on, let me see your arse. Maybe I can put on some analgesic ointment. Numb the pain while we’re out.”

He said, “Not necessary,” as he moved toward the bed. Without a word he removed his robe and lay down. The overall pink and red was fading a bit, John thought, but the purple bruises and welts would be hard for Sherlock to ignore. John gave a concerned hum and Sherlock looked around. “What, worse?”

“No, not worse. But definitely going to be uncomfortable. Let me get the ointment. And an icepack. Even a few minutes will help.”

“We’re losing precious time John.”

“It’s gonna take me a few minutes to get dressed anyway.”

“John. Someone’s life may be at risk.”

“Not fair, Sherlock, and not good, trying to make me feel guilty,” he said sternly. “Lestrade would have texted. Anyway, you’re not going to be able to think if your arse is throbbing so shut it.”

John retrieved the icepack and the ointment. He spread it as gently as he could, then laid the icepack on top. “I’m going to bring the paracetamol and the and the ointment with us. The both should last about four hours, but if the pain increases before that, we’ll try at three.”

Sherlock gave him a lascivious grin and said, “Are you going to rub my bum at New Scotland Yard, Doctor?”

John snorted back a laugh. “You’ll do it yourself if you want it. Spoiled brat. Now lie still, while I get dressed.”

For all of Sherlock’s bravado about his transport, it pained John to watch him try to put his trousers on. He stayed silent, but the flinching and twisting gave him away. John winced in sympathy but Sherlock scoffed at him. “It’s not a bullet wound, John. I’ll live.”

When he was finished, he took his coat off the hook and for a moment he looked at it thoughtfully. “Where’s your kilt, John?”

John pointed his finger at him and raised his voice. “No. Put it out of your head. I draw the line. You are not leaving this flat without trousers. I don’t care how sore your arse is.”

Sherlock glared but John ignored him. He softened and kissed his forehead. “Try to solve it quickly that’s all, so you can come back home and get naked.”

“Hmm. I suppose that’s added incentive.”

John watched him make his way down the stairs, and there was no disguising his discomfort. His usual grace was gone, replaced with a caution and stiffness that signaled nothing other than pain.

They met Mrs Hudson on the way out but didn’t linger. “The game is on, Mrs Hudson! No time for driveling chit-chat.” John pecked her on the cheek anyway. Sherlock grabbed the newspaper on the way out of the flat and hailed a cab immediately. “New Scotland Yard, my good man.”

“God, I think I like you better morose.”

Sherlock opened the paper and removed the center few sheets, handing the rest of it to John. He spread them on the floor of the cab and knelt down on them giving him a knowing smile.

“Clever boy,” John said admiringly, “but you won’t be able to do that in Greg’s office, will you?”

“Won’t be necessary. You’re far too worried about this. Relax.”

 

When they entered the office Lestrade was already elbow deep in files, and Sherlock gave John a smug look. Lestrade looked pointedly at Sherlock, pointed to a chair and ordered, “Have a seat.” Sherlock blushed all the way to the tops of his ears and tightened his lips. “No.” John pinched his bottome and the blush deepened. Sherlock flinched. He stuck out his chin, closed his eyes, and corrected himself. “No, thank you,” he said. It put John in mind of himself as a first year French student, rolling words around his mouth, trying to make them fit.

Lestrade poked out the side of his cheek with his tongue and nodded slightly. He looked at John who asked the question with a tilt of his head and Lestrade answered with a satisfied nod. He took the red folder from his desk drawer and handed it to Sherlock who reached for it eagerly. John held up his hand and intercepted it. Sherlock froze, looking at him questioningly. With his other hand, John took an envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock frowned at him, but John raised his eyebrows. With exaggerated restraint, Sherlock took the envelope between forefinger and thumb, lifting his lip as if it were a soiled tissue. He held it over the desk to Lestrade, who was thoroughly confused by now. As Lestrade took it, Sherlock looked back at John, holding out his hand expectantly for the folder, but John tilted his head toward Lestrade and waited.

Sherlock squeezed up his face, but clasped his hands behind his back and said, “I wrote you a letter. You should--” he interrupted himself with an irritated look at John, whose expression did not change, “Would you be so kind as to read it now?” Lestrade glanced between them. John looked at Lestrade and pointed to the envelope with his chin. Sherlock reached for the folder again, but John switched it to his other hand without taking his eyes off Greg. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock huffed, but held his hands behind his back again and waited. Greg furrowed his eyebrows, trying to puzzle out the wordless exchange, but being a man of wisdom in the face of the inexplicable, turned his attention to the envelope in his hand, opened it and began to read.

Sherlock squirmed and fidgeted, but John let it pass. Greg hmmphed, choked back a laugh, glared at Sherlock at one point and finished the letter. He placed it on the desk and flipped to a new page in the notepad lying there and scribbled something. Sliding his finger down the letter, he paused then wrote something else on the pad. He folded it thoughtfully and returned it to the envelope. He stood for a moment then turned to his filing cabinet. He shuffled through the drawer and pulled a bulging folder out partway, then slipped the envelope inside. He looked at Sherlock and said, “Right then.” He looked at John next and they nodded at one another.

Sherlock glared at John then and stuck his hand out for the folder yet again. This time, John handed it over. Sherlock opened it and was transported immediately. He took the papers out, and absentmindedly held the folder out to the side and John took it from him. He put the pages down on the desk, fanned them out and handed some to John. He walked to Lestrade’s bulletin board and stuck some up with pins and whipped up a snowstorm of paper around the room. Then he got to the photos. Lestrade and John stepped back and let him work his magic. He ordered and reordered and sorted and picked then up again. He picked up one of the stacks, flipped and reordered it and then shouted, “Oh. Oh. Of course! Take me there. Now!” He turned looking at the two of them in disbelief, projecting wordlessly: _Why haven’t you transported me instantaneously, instead of standing there, staring vacantly?_

Greg and John smiled at each other and John asked, “Do you want a cab, Sherlock, or should Greg take us?”

“Obviously whatever’s faster.” He gave an epic eyeroll. “Honestly John, do I have to think of everything?” He was back to his arrogant self, despite the lingering soreness in his arse.

Greg sighed happily, and said, “There’s our boy.” He grabbed his coat and keys. “Let’s go, genius.” Sherlock huffed in dramatic indignation. As he was putting on his coat, Lestrade swept towards him and gave him a swat on his arse. Sherlock jerked away with an undignified yelp and scowled as Lestrade shook John’s hand. He grabbed Sherlock from behind in a one-armed hug around the neck. Quietly in his ear, he said, “Forgiven.”

Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly but he muttered, “Sentiment,” in disgust. “Honestly, Geoff, haven’t I told you countless times I despise physical contact? Come along John, no time to waste.”

Tuesday Night

Thirty-three hours later, they returned to 221B, Sherlock filthy, from scouring the banks of the Thames at low tide, and John carrying a sack of Chinese takeaway, stumbling from exhaustion. Sherlock was happily manic, flitting about the flat like a hyperactive moth. John allowed him 15 minutes of purposeless hyperactivity and non-stop jabbering. Then he told him to go take a shower. He tried again. The third time, he stood up straight and raised his voice. “Sherlock.” It cut through Sherlock’s frenzy like a surgeon’s scalpel.

He froze, then turned toward John with a puzzled look on his face.

“You were brilliant. Now. Go. Shower. I expect you at the table,” he looked at his watch, “in 12 minutes.”

Sherlock’s jaw eased slightly, then the corner of his mouth lifted in a sly smile. “Yes, Captain.”

John nodded. “There’s my good boy.”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered and he practically sprinted towards the loo. John mirrored his smile and started to set the food out on plates. He set them in the microwave and went to the bedroom to strip and put on a dressing gown temporarily. He couldn’t gather himself to shower till he’d eaten. Sherlock was back at the table in eleven minutes, twenty-four seconds and John gave him a proper kiss. “Did I mention how amazing you were?”

Sherlock picked up his plate and set it on the counter so he could stand. He said, “Not nearly enough,” and dug into the dumplings. Between mouthfuls of General Tso’s chicken, John showered him in well-deserved admiration.

“You were absolutely brilliant. The river;  Greg would never  have figured it out.” He preened and John coddled. By the time he was full and satisfied with Sherlock’s intake, John was practically nodding at the table.

Sherlock took him gently by the elbow and led him to the shower. He adjusted the temperature of the water, talking to keep John awake. He was enjoying being the caretaker for a change. “Your turn. Don’t fall asleep in there.”  He made sure that John wouldn’t drown while shampooing and got his towel. He went to the bedroom and brought back some pyjama bottoms for him, then left him alone to finish up. By the time John made it to the bed, Sherlock was spread-eagle on his stomach, snoring lightly. John took a few minutes to care for his arse, which was still glowing, and shoved him over to make space for himself. Sherlock threw an arm and a leg over him and he fell into the deep sleep of the righteous.

John had warned Lestrade not to disturb them. He knew they had to head back to NSY to give their statements, but he wouldn’t wake Sherlock until he’d had his full fourteen hours of post-case sleep. He was fairly certain that Sherlock would want to go to the lab to confirm the variation in the chemical composition of lipstick something, something, profile and how it compared to the spectroscopic analysis something, something, which he’d unsuccessfully tried to explain to the two of them. Molly would understand and happily indulge his endless soliloquy. As he drifted off, John listened fondly from a distance: _lipstick…carnauba…high melting point…_ _[ozokerite](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ozokerite)…[beeswax](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beeswax)_

Wednesday

John himself had had a solid 10 hours, then dozed on and off for another two. When he woke, he was starving again, and ran downstairs to Speedy’s for a takeaway breakfast. He settled down to enjoy the remaining two hours of blissful Sherlock-free silence.

When Sherlock wandered, sheet- clad and yawning, into the sitting room, John was rested and full. He set out a plate for him and stood next to him at the side table feeding him bites while Sherlock was still sleepy and pliable. When he truly woke up he began to harass John again about hurrying to the lab so he could complete his theory of the case.

“Remember, we have to give our statements, too, Sherlock.”

“Boring, John. If Gary wants statements, he can come and get them at Bart’s. The analysis is far more important.”

John sighed and texted Greg to see if that would work. They agreed on eleven, which would give Sherlock 2 hours of uninterrupted whatever it was he would be doing. Before they left, John pointedly showed him Molly’s letter and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but stayed quiet. John pushed his luck a bit and said, “First thing Sherlock, before the microscope.”

“More ridiculous sentiment, John? It’s tiresome and will distract me from—”

John cut him off in his stern voice. “Before the microscope.”

Somehow Sherlock managed to give him a scathing look out of just the corner of his eye but begrudgingly he said, “Yes, Captain.” He swirled himself and his coat out of the flat. Before he got to the front door, John stopped him. “I want to see if we can take Mrs Hudson to dinner tonight. She fed us for the last 4 days. Go hail us a cab.” Sherlock huffed, while John negotiated time and place.

Though he should have been thrumming with the excitement of tying up the loose ends of a case, Sherlock was unusually quiet. When they arrived at Bart’s, he looked at John, lost. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. He looked away. John pulled him by the cuff of his coat round to the rubbish skips where it was quieter. “What is it?”

“What if she cries?”

John sighed and pulled his head down for a kiss on the forehead. “She’s not going to cry, Sherlock. She’s tougher than that. She might get a little teary. But what if she _does_ cry?”

“What am I going to do then?”

“Well. You could just let her cry. Just stand there and be with her while she cries. So she knows that you know that she’s…whatever she is. She might cry because she’s happy that you’re safe, or because your letter makes her sad, or she might just feel like crying. Sometimes you don’t know why. Just be brave enough to be with her if she cries.”

Sherlock looked at him very intently, as if he were trying to interpret a new language. Then he nodded his head slowly. “I can do that. I can just be with her. If she cries. I don’t have to fix it?”

“No. You don’t have to fix it. It’s not something you can fix. That’s what the letter’s for. Fixing the things you can’t fix.”

He tilted his head and nodded again slowly. “What if she tries to hug me, or kiss my cheek?”

John shook his head with a fond, disbelieving smile. “How bad would that be? On a scale of one to ten?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and gave the matter deep thought. “A six.”

John lifted his eyebrows and said nothing.

Sherlock nodded his head with certainty this time and said, “A six isn’t so bad. I can handle a six. For Molly. Seeing as how…”

John interrupted him, “Right. That’s sorted. Let’s go.” He pulled on his cuff again and they went back round to the entrance.

Sherlock through the door open with his usual flair, although John recognized it for the bravado it was.

Molly looked up in surprise. “Sherlock! John. You’re here. I mean obviously, you’re here. I wasn’t expecting you. I thought you had…oh, but yesterday…I should known because the lipstick…anyway, pay no attention. Hello. How are you? Both of you.” She looked down and away. “Anyway. Coffee?”

Sherlock strode across the lab towards her and she took two steps back. He grabbed her by the elbow and turned, pulling her back towards the door. “Molly. I require your…presence.” As he passed John, he held out his hand and John drew the envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to him. He drew her into the soundproof room and John watched the pantomime through the glass.

Sherlock spoke very briefly and handed her the letter. Her eyes flitted between him and the letter. John looked away when she caught him watching. He looked back and saw the flickering changes in her face: concern, confusion, surprise, affection, sympathy, amusement. Then John saw the quivering bottom lip and muttered, “Shit,” under his breath. Sherlock turned to look at him with panic, but John drew himself up and nodded at him with tight lips and a stern look. Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath. He looked back at her and braced himself. She looked up at him and said something. He gave a tiny nod and she approached him as if she were walking a tightrope. She stuck out her arms and he lifted his. She grabbed him gently around the waist and he managed to place one arm around her shoulders. They held their positions for a few seconds, then stepped away from each other and avoided eye contact. Then Molly opened the door and John heard Sherlock saying, “…never speak of this again.”

Molly replied, “Of course not,” and that was the end of that.

Sherlock sat or rather stood at the microscope, mounting slides and taking notes, until Greg showed up at eleven to take their statements. He wickedly offered Sherlock a chair, which he declined with tightened lips. Greg nodded in satisfaction and John looked down at his shoes in false modesty. Sherlock traipsed around the room in frustration, eager to get back to his microscope. Eventually Greg finished and John resigned himself to several more hours working at the desktop computer on his blog while Sherlock peered through his lenses. Molly cleared off, “for a date with a bloke from radiology,” she made sure to point out.

John was genuinely pleased for her and walked towards Sherlock, saying, “That’s great, did you hear that Sherlock?” He patted him on the arse and he looked up indignantly and John repeated the essential data with a significant look.

“Oh, right. That’s…good. Right, John? Good?”

“Yes, Sherlock, good.”

Silence. John patted him again. Sherlock glared and John jerked his head towards molly again. “What else?”

Sherlock thought. “Ummm…have a good time?”

Molly looked pleased. “Thank you Sherlock. I intend to. We might even have sex.” She grinned at them both.

John said, “Knock ‘im dead, Molly Hooper.” She walked out with a positive bounce in her step.

Sherlock turned to give John his ‘you’re so vacant’ look. “What kind of expression is that? If her goal is sexual intercourse, why would she want to knock him dead? Is it some kind of play on words, to do with her work in the morgue? Is that some kind of code for necrophi…”

“No! No, Sherlock, it…never mind. I’m not clever enough to explain it to you. So, scale of 1-10? She didn’t actually cry.”

Sherlock pretended to ignore him.

John smiled fondly at him from behind his back. “How much longer here? Mrs Hudson will be wanting dinner soon.”

Sherlock snorted. “You mean, you’ll be wanting dinner soon.”

“Any ordinary person would be wanting dinner soon. I wanted dinner half an hour ago.” Walking up behind him, John wrapped his arms around him and kissed the back of his neck. Sherlock tilted his head around so John could reach his temple and he hummed.

“Maybe another half hour, if all goes according to plan.”

John kissed his way up to the hollow at the base of his skull. When he grabbed a ringlet between his lips and tugged, Sherlock shuddered. “Make sure it goes according to plan.”

Two hours later, John had them at a roti stand near Camden Lock. There was a counter that Sherlock could stand at pecking away at his tandoori, while he and Mrs Hudson sat a picnic table. Sherlock had asked if it was ok if he gave Mrs Hudson the letter while they were out, and John had agreed. He knew Sherlock had had about as much sentiment as he could take for the day, and honestly, Mrs Hudson had been the least concerned of all of them. Maybe she had the most faith? Or the least fear. He was her prodigal son, after all. She would make exactly the right amount of fuss and since they were out and about, he could make an easy escape if he were overwhelmed.

When Mrs Hudson finished her tandoori, John waved the envelope under Sherlock’s nose and ordered another naan wrap for himself. Sherlock grabbed it and then took Mrs Hudson by the arm. They walked to look out over the lock and after a little while he handed her the envelope. While she read the letter, he twitched and fidgeted. She tucked it in her pocketbook and then took his cheeks between her hands and tilted his forehead down to rest on hers. They communed for a moment and she let him go. They chatted, or Mrs. Hudson chatted, for a while and when John finished his meal, they strolled home leisurely.

After they deposited Mrs Hudson off, John took a shower. When he finished Sherlock was sprawled on the bed with his dressing gown on. He drew it up over his backside so John could “fondle my arse. You’re not fooling me, Captain. I know you just can’t wait to get your hands on it and your cock in it again.”

John shook his head at him. “You’ll never learn, will you, to keep your mouth shut.” He gave him a pinch on one of the spots that had returned to its original color. “You’re absolutely right, as usual.” He was pleased that the bruises were fading into an awful greenish yellow and the welts were no longer quite such an ugly red as they had been even a day earlier. Their swelling had gone down as well. Sherlock still inhaled sharply when he initially rubbed arnica onto them but he settled quickly and purred when John worked it into the bruised areas.

“How much longer do you think until I’m fit for duty?” he asked while gyrating his bum just a bit.

John drawled in a scholarly tone. “In my professional opinion, you should be shaggable in another 24-36 hours.”

“Had a lot of experience in that area, have you, Doctor?”

John gave him a swat and said, “Unfortunately, I’ve become the world’s leading expert, thanks to a patient of mine who’s a chronic sufferer of the syndrome, which is marked by an exceptionally hard head and abnormally sensitive buttocks.” He kept gently massaging the cream in.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, “your hands on technique is exceptional. Best I’ve ever experienced.”

“Better be the only one too.” When he finished, he returned the supplies to the medicine chest and returned to find Sherlock resting on his side, on the floor by the side of the bed, with his dressing gown thrown artfully over his hip.

John’s tongue slid out of his mouth and drew back over his bottom lip. “What’s this, then?” Sherlock looked like a siren and he felt like a sailor about to crash on the rocks. He had a feeling he wouldn’t regret it in the slightest.

Sherlock rumbled, “I’d like to practice some technique of my own, if you don’t mind. Wouldn’t want to get rusty.”

John smiled slowly, and said, “Very sensible. What’s it been, a few days? Skill levels have to be maintained. You’ve got to keep your hand in.”

Sherlock lowered his chin and looked at him with dilated pupils, from under his eyelashes. “Or your mouth, as the case may be.”

“What about in this particular case?” John asked as he walked toward the bed. He adjusted his pyjama bottoms to accommodate his rapidly swelling cock.

“Well, Doctor, I am a particularly advanced student. I was thinking of both, to be honest.”

“First in class.” John sat on the edge of the bed and Sherlock turned toward him, kneeling now. He reached up and wrapped his long fingers around John’s neck. John kissed him and Sherlock hummed with pleasure, swiping his bottom lip with his tongue. He ran his hands down his back and inside the waistband of John’s pyjama bottoms. He lifted his arse and Sherlock slid them all the way down and onto the floor. His hands returned to John, sliding underneath and giving a squeeze. John put his hands on Sherlock’s head and twirled his fingers through the curls, relishing the silkiness and knowing it would pull a groan from Sherlock’s throat. He loved fingers in his hair. Sherlock let his face drop into John’s lap and turned his head from side to side. As the blood left his head and flowed into his cock, John took a deep breath, trying not to get light-headed.

“There we are. Initial results are promising. Should I retrieve my manual, Doctor?” Sherlock asked with mock scientific authority. John attempted to reply, but Sherlock gave the tip of his foreskin a delicate kiss, and the words couldn’t find their way out. Sherlock smirked and slid his mouth down, pulling the foreskin off the glans. His tongue swirled loosely. He wrapped his hand around the base. John moaned and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. After a few passes up and down, the pre-come began to leak from the tip and Sherlock lapped it up like a kitten at a bowl of cream. John grabbed his hair a little tighter and Sherlock hummed. Using the slightest pressure, John pushed Sherlock’s head down, but he was so eager, he never felt it. One twist of his fist and John was completely erect.

“Fuck, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pulled off and ogled up at him. “Doctor’s orders. Not allowed yet.” He took his hand off John and stroked himself with a few slow pulls. Not to leave John neglected, he dropped his head as far as it would go and let John fill his mouth and throat. He gasped and looked down to try to get a glimpse, but Sherlock’s head was in the way.

“Here, let me see.”

Sherlock pulled away and a string of saliva and pre-come stretched from his lower lip to the tip of his John’s cock. Sherlock tried to lick it off, then used his index finger to swipe it away. He stared up at John with smoldering eyes and licked it off. John was hypnotized with lust. He stared, mouth open at the sight. It was obscene in the most delicious way imaginable.

“Jesus, you’re a goddamned succubus.”

“I could be if you wanted, but I believe you mean incubus.”

“You could be a bloody city bus, just don’t stop.”

“You wanted to see!” he said indignantly.

“I’ve seen enough. Get busy.”

“Yes, Captain.” This time he leered and started a rhythm that had John moaning. He pressed on the underside of his cock with his tongue and drew off at the tip to end each stroke with a swirling kiss of the glans.

Sherlock fisted himself and tried not to let his panting interfere with his sucking. John’s stomach muscles tensed and Sherlock knew he was close. The speed of his head and his hand increased and John whimpered.

“Sherlock…Sherlock, don’t…yes, yes, come, I’m…gonna…”

A final pull, a drag of the tongue and Sherlock’s mouth filled with come. He was careful not to lose a drop. John panted, his hips thrusting as he chased the sensations fueling his climax. The view of his lover, eyes closed, swallowing, sent new tremors through him. Sherlock concentrated on sucking, while his hand sped up on himself. In less than a minute he threw his head back and rode his own wave of pleasure, shuddering and spurting onto his chest. He fell onto John’s lap, like his bones had turned to jelly. John fell forward, laying his head on top of Sherlock’s.

When he gathered his strength, John grabbed him under the arms and pulled him to his chest, then collapsed back onto the bed. They clutched each other and rubbed their hips together sending tremors back and forth between them, as long as their sensitivity would allow. When their breathing had settled a bit, Sherlock crawled up over him to lie on his side while John followed him. John drew him close, ignoring the stickiness on his chest. When it started to dry, John pulled away and lifted his lip in distaste at the sensation. “So glad I took a shower.”

Sherlock grunted and John said, “Right. Don’t suppose you’re getting up.” He grunted again and John got up. He cleaned himself off and brought a flannel to clean Sherlock up.

“Mmm, s’cold.”

“Oh, hush. I’ll warm you up in a second.” When he finished, John tossed it into the loo and crawled in beside him. He was wrapped up in Sherlock’s limbs in a moment and they fell asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to TiaOconnell for being here from beginning to end. I wouldn't have gotten here without you.
> 
> And a thank you also to PsychGirl (snycock) for giving me a writing seminar I'll be learning from for a looooong time. Invaluable advice and amazing generosity from one person! How lucky am I?

**Thursday**

John woke up alone to the sound of a violin. Sherlock was reacquainting himself with his muse after their forced separation. He was a vision in his blue dressing gown, standing in the morning sunlight streaming through the window. John sighed, painfully aware of how gorgeous Sherlock was and how he’d have to eat if he were going to have the strength to act on that awareness. He passed him by, with enormous self-control and set the kettle to boil.

“Do you want some—“ He cut himself off, knowing he’d get no answer and made toast for the both of them. When breakfast was ready, he waited for a break in the serenade, took the bow from Sherlock’s hand and laid it on the music stand. He got a glowering for his trouble, but followed through, saying, “Come and eat.” Sherlock put the violin in the case reluctantly. John grabbed a cushion from the sofa and took Sherlock by the hand. He wanted him to have at least one slice so he opened the bidding: “Two slices of toast.”

“Half a slice.”

“One whole. WITH butter and jam.”

“Hmm.”

_Honestly, it’s like living with a four year-old._

John placed the cushion on the chair and said, “Give it a try.”

Sherlock looked at it sceptically, saying, “I don’t know…”

“Just try it.”

Sherlock eased himself down, wincing a little, but finally settling himself. He sighed and nodded at him.

John nodded back with satisfaction and brought the plates and mugs to the table. He fed Sherlock while he was distracted by the newspapers. Attempting to broach the subject casually, he said, “You know, you still have one more letter to deliver.”

Sherlock lowered the top of the paper. A look of infinite suffering came over his face. “I have been able to count since I was two years of age, John. To one hundred, I’m told. I am aware that there is another letter to deliver.” He lifted the paper again. Quietly, he continued, “I am merely avoiding it.”

John laughed at him. “That’s very insightful of you, love. Now. What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to continue to consider my options, obviously.”

“Ah.” John pulled the top of the newspaper again ignoring Sherlock’s growl. “I think I’m going to impose a deadline. That will help.” He expected an outburst and he was not surprised.

“Jo-ohn!” Sherlock whined. “That’s not fa—“ He sucked in his lips in an attempt to keep the word from escaping. At least John had succeeded in making him aware of the juvenile aspect of that particular complaint. Left without a comeback, he scowled.

“You have one more day. What are you so worried about, anyway?”

“Do you recall to whom the letter must be delivered?”

It was John’s turn to roll his eyes. “Do you think I’ve lost track?”

“And you ask what I’m worried about?”

John used his Captain’s voice to say, “Time to get over it, Sherlock. One more day.”

Unable to steel himself against it, he meekly responded, “Yes, Captain. One more day.” He perked up a bit. “For a decision! Not the delivery!”

John shook his head with a little smile. “I should have known you’d outsmart me.” He allowed Sherlock a moment of smugness, then took him down a peg again. “But the letter has to be delivered before Monday. As in, by Sunday night.” Sherlock deflated again. John raised his eyebrows and waited expectantly.

Sherlock drew a deep breath. “Yes, Captain. Sunday night.”

John got up and kissed the top of his head.

It was a quiet day, Sherlock still cheerful and riding the wave of endorphins that the successful closing of a case brought him. John wrote up a first draft for the blog, asking Sherlock for details and prolonging the serenity by stroking his ego. The praise and admiration was well deserved. Sherlock tried to disguise his delight, but John knew the tells: a slight dipping of his head, the smile downturned at the corners, and an embarrassed little shrug of his shoulders. John cherished every one of them. It was so rare to see him enjoy himself like an ordinary person. He played his violin, stole John’s laptop when he could, and puttered around his microscope, sneaking petri dishes into the fridge when he thought John wasn’t looking. They watched the usual crap telly and went to bed.

**Friday**

Friday morning, John couldn’t get Sherlock to eat a thing. Using grocery shopping as an excuse, John reminded him he had two hours left to come up with a plan and left him to ping around like an electron round a nucleus. On the endless line at Tesco he texted:

Plan? JW

PLAN? JW

With each unanswered text, John’s frustration became more obvious.

DO YOU HAVE A PLAN? JW

You know how I hate it when you repeat yourself, John. SH

Answer me the first time and I won’t repeat myself, idiot. JW

Hello? JW

HAVE YOU MADE A PLAN?!? JW

By now John was muttering under his breath and jamming his phone with his thumbs.

Dammit, Sherlock, if you don’t answer me in 60 seconds, your arse will need another week off. JW

Yes. SH

He let out a huff of frustration.

I’ll be home in 15 minutes. You will eat a sandwich and tell me the plan. JW

Half. SH

John smiled at the checkout girl and she asked, “Is that your kid?”

He laughed. _At the moment, for all intents and purposes._

She smiled, knowingly. “You love ‘em, but they’ll drive you mad.”

“You’re right about that. Cheers.”

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, his sore arse still keeping him on his belly, and stayed there through the putting away of groceries, the making of sandwiches and the boiling of the kettle. When he was finished, John called, “Oy. Lunch.” He called twice more, then walked to the sofa and gave him a swat.

“Ow! What was that for? I thought you were shopping.”

“I was, you git. It’s time for lunch.”

Sherlock managed to get out, “I’m not hun—“ before John cut him off.

“I have proof of your agreement to half a sandwich, so shut it. Bring the pillow and eat.”

When the pillow was situated according to Sherlock’s specifications, he eased himself down with significantly less of a grimace than he’d shown the day before and John nodded with professional satisfaction.

“You're almost better.”

Since Sherlock wasn’t willing to give up his affected martyrdom yet, he shifted gingerly and said, “Not even close, John. I’ll have you know I’m in continuous agony.”

As he brought the sandwiches to the table, John mumbled, “Mm-hmm. Drama queen”

Sherlock scowled at John, then the sandwich. “Does this have—”

“No mustard. Eat.”

When they’d finished, John asked, “Well?”

With an attempt at innocence, Sherlock said, “Well what?”

“Stop stalling. What is the plan for delivering Mycroft’s letter?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but wince at the very name. “You’ll be surprised to know that I do have a plan.”

“Not surprised at all. Pleased. Right chuffed. I knew you could do it. Care to share?”

Sherlock was smug now. “Not only did I come up with a plan, it will be implemented this evening.”

John truly was surprised. He thought it would be a last minute, pushing the boundaries, Sherlock delaying forever weekend. This would open all sorts of interesting possibilities. “NOOoooo. I can’t believe it. Tell me.” He looked at his watch. “Quick.”

“It’s Friday, the evening of Mycroft’s which is least likely to be taken up with the minutiae of a diminished empire. And where do you suppose he would spend such an evening?” he asked in his insufferably superior, ‘why are you all so vacant’ tone.

And now John was truly impressed. “The Diogenes Club. You really are my brilliant boy, aren’t you?” He walked over to Sherlock, bent down and kissed him. “How clever are you!”

After completing a tiny squirm at the praise, Sherlock said, “He won’t be able to say a word. No condescension or gloating, no opportunity for sentiment. Complete, compulsory silence.”

John nodded in admiration. “It’s perfect. I won’t have to arbitrate between you, like you’re a couple of toddlers.”

Sherlock couldn’t help himself but he at least had the self-respect to mutter the words. “He’s the toddler.”

John tried not to laugh, but it would not be denied and he snorted.

They spent a quiet afternoon. As the sun set, John asked, “When do you propose we make the delivery?”

Sherlock checked his watch. **“He's always there from a quarter to five till twenty to eight. It's six now, so if you care for a stroll this beautiful evening I shall be very happy to** get rid of the last of these infernal letters.”

“Quick dinner.”

Sherlock sighed. “Of course.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Would you rather have me crabby? Or go alone?”

The thought of entering the lion’s den by himself was enough to unsettle Sherlock entirely. He snapped, “Just eat already, will you?”

 _Typical._ _Cover the anxiety with irritation._ John let it pass.

On their way, John demanded Sherlock’s help with his sign language. “Show me ‘Good evening’ again,” he demanded.

Sherlock dutifully modeled and John imitated. Or attempted to.

“No, you just said ‘sit early’. Your thumb has to--perhaps you should leave it to me.”

“For god’s sake, Sherlock, I’m a surgeon. I’m pretty good with my hands.”

Sherlock gave him a very sly look. “I’ve noticed.”

John blushed a bit. “Prat.”

When they arrived, Sherlock and Wilder conversed. John picked up on a few pieces of dialogue.

          Wilder: Good evening, little Holmes.

          Sherlock: Good evening, Wilder. Brother?

          Wilder: Yes. Eat. You eat?

          Sherlock: No.

Wilder addressed John.

          Wilder: Good evening, Doctor. You eat?

John was not quite as successful as he would have liked.

          John: Sit early. Asthma Goodbye.

Wilder and Sherlock looked at each other and shook their heads.

Sherlock led the way to the dining room. When Mycroft saw them, he was surprised and placed his napkin on the table. He stood and beckoned toward his private office, where they could speak freely, but Sherlock shook his head and pointed to the library; there would be fewer people there at dinnertime but silence was still mandatory. Mycroft’s surprise turned to suspicion.

          Mycroft: What?

Sherlock ignored him. When they entered the library, Mycroft took one of three seats next to a window and he and John sat down. Sherlock declined, but John wasn’t sure if it was because of his arse or for strategic advantage. This was Mycroft’s home field and Sherlock would want to be able to move around or make a quick getaway if necessary. In any case, John sat back to watch the match. Sherlock pressed forward quickly. He held his hand out to John who passed the letter to him and he passed it to Mycroft whose face now displayed an expression rarely seen there: confusion. He stared uncomprehendingly at Sherlock, then at John, who pointed back at Sherlock, who once again attempted to disguise his anxiety with exasperation by shifting and rolling his eyes. If it were possible to shout while signing, he did.

          Sherlock: Read! Now!

A more typical expression returned to Mycroft’s face: he scowled. John scrubbed his eyes and wondered if the two of them could have a screaming match in complete silence. _They’re brilliant. If anyone could…_

Mycroft stood and lifted his arms in the opening move of what would have been an epic swirling and flashing of hands that would probably have ignited the dust in the room, if any had been permitted to exist there. But there were reasons Mycroft was the British government and one of them was his ability to keep his head while those around him were losing theirs.

He drew back from the brink with closed eyes and a deep breath. He sat precisely and placed the letter in his lap, opening his eyes and smiling his reptilian diplomatic smile, the one that didn’t reach the rest of his face. He looked at John and gestured to the teapot, not because he expected him to want any, but to reestablish the proper British order of things. He took a sip from his own cup, then another and replaced it on the table. Stiffening his upper lip, he opened the envelope. He read it, expressionlessly, then again. From time to time, he stared out the window and read again, looking at Sherlock occasionally from the corners of his eyes. He poured himself another cup of tea, sipped it, and then read the letter again for a third time. He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. He folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. Unlike Sherlock’s straightened steeple, Mycroft joined his fingers in a soft arch, and held them in front of his mouth. He stared at nothing for a good long while.

In the interim Sherlock buzzed around the library like an over-caffeinated hummingbird. He zipped from place to place, freezing at each new location for a second, then resuming his quivering. He would hover over a book on a shelf for a few seconds, then thrum his way to a lectern and flip a few pages, vibrate over to draw back a curtain and look out the window, but his eyes never left Mycroft for more than a few seconds. The longer Mycroft took, the twitchier Sherlock got. John longed to comfort him, but Sherlock had to walk that lonesome valley by himself. John poured himself a cup of tea, just to have something to do.

Finally Mycroft's eyes lost their far-away cast and Sherlock intuited that he was coming back from wherever he’d been. He fluttered over to stand nearer to his chair and John prepared himself by taking a deep breath and holding it. But Mycroft ignored Sherlock and rested his gaze on John. He signed something that flew right past him and Sherlock signed back too rapidly to follow. Mycroft signed again at John more slowly, but this time thought he understood.

          M: What are you?

He thought he understood the signs, but he didn’t understand the meaning. That wasn’t the kind of question a brother-in-law would be asking and he shrugged in confusion.

Sherlock’s hands flew like a conductor’s and whatever he said, Mycroft conceded and turned to stare at him. Sherlock froze at attention and John was suddenly grateful he wasn’t the object of the examination. Mycroft studied Sherlock’s face the way John imagined he studied the diplomats around a table, negotiating a momentous, world-altering agreement. Sherlock withstood it like a mouse willing itself into invisibility before a snake. But it did him no good. Mycroft found whatever he was trying to hide and Sherlock acknowledged defeat with a sigh and a slump.

When Mycroft stood, Sherlock’s eyes widened and he took a step back, bumping into a lectern. He turned to steady it and when he turned back, Mycroft had invaded Sherlock’s personal space, a full foot closer than their usual distance. Before Sherlock could figure out how to maneuver his way back and around the lectern, Mycroft had grabbed his right arm just below the elbow. Sherlock froze again, but something in Mycroft’s expression must have calmed him and John watched as the tension left his shoulders and his face softened. And then he bent his arm and grabbed Mycroft’s arm in return. Détente, sweeter than that of the Capulets and Montagues was attained and John luxuriated in the peace, conscious of how fleeting it may be.

The grasp brought them physically closer than John had ever seen them. After an endless 15 seconds, they broke apart at some invisible agreement. Sherlock fled from the room as quickly as he could without flat out running. John started to follow him, but Mycroft stepped in front of him and stuck out his hand. John tilted his head and took it, the closest physically that they had ever been. After a significantly shorter 3 seconds, Mycroft released him and sat back in his chair.

Although he’d been hoping that Sherlock would have achieved some degree of homeostasis, he was still pacing the outer room. When he saw John come through the library door, he threw his arms up in the air, which wasn’t technically sign language, but clearly communicated, “Finally!” He swirled around and collapsed heavily into one of the upholstered leather chairs.

John froze and forgot himself. “Sherlock!” He was bombarded with hisses and glares from the regulars who were sitting nearby. Even Sherlock was scandalised and gave him an indignant look. John grabbed his hand and pulled, but Sherlock resisted and pointed to the chair opposite him. John tugged again, to no effect, then tightened his lips and searched his meager mind cottage for the vocabulary he knew he lacked. Finally he outlined a child’s drawing of a house with his fingers, but Sherlock stretched out his legs and gestured to indicate that he was relieved and in no hurry. John jerked his thumb towards the door, and Sherlock stuck out his chin, silently refusing. At the end of his tether, John held out both hands, cupping them in the universal gesture for a luscious arse.

Sherlock, comprehension dawning, sat up straight in the chair then shifted from one hip to the other, testing the tenderness of his bottom. When he realized he was pain-free, he sprang out of his chair and grabbed John by the hand. Their flight was accompanied by more disapproving scowls. They ran together and burst through the front door of the club, Sherlock with his hand already in the air, calling for a cab. The two of them were vibrating with tension and sat thigh to thigh on the rear seat. Any additional contact would have sent them into an inappropriate frenzy, and beside, the anticipation was a pleasure in itself.

When the cab pulled up, Sherlock threw a handful of bills at the driver while John fumbled with the keys. When he got the door open, John left it only slightly ajar and waited behind it. As soon as Sherlock burst through, yelling his name, John shoved him, slamming it shut with a bang. He flattened himself up against him and grabbed the luscious arse in question, stroking and squeezing with both hands full.

Mrs Hudson peeked through the chain on her door, wielding the just-in-case cricket bat they’d bought for her, just in case. “Oh, boys, try to give me a little notice next time if you can. Have fun.” They ignored her. She exchanged the cricket bat for the noise cancelling Bluetooth headphones they’d got her for Christmas and cranked up the ELO.

Sherlock moaned and pulled John’s face away from where he was sucking on the side of his endless neck. He licked at his mouth, trying to find his way through John’s clenched teeth, but John was too focused on his double handful, a starving man whose dinner was in reach. In another example of the strength belied by his smaller physique, he picked Sherlock up by the arse, in toto, and spun him around. Sherlock yelped and John grinned to let him know he’d heard it.

John pushed him, keeping him off balance, to the foot of the stairs, then pressed his advantage, manhandling him up each step and pinning him against the door where he once again fiddled with the knob. Sherlock stumbled backwards, dizzy from John’s intensity and kept upright only by the death-grip on his bum. When he was certain Sherlock was stable, John let go and Sherlock stepped back. They were both winded. Breathlessly, John whispered, “Strip. Now.”

Sherlock felt an icy finger run up his backbone and he closed his eyes. What he said was, “Yes, Captain,” and started with his shirt, but John interrupted.

“No. Trousers.”

Sherlock took a sudden sharp breath—sometimes he felt so much more exposed when he was half naked. Especially when John was clothed. Fingers trembling, he left his buttons and started on his belt. John had to hold himself back, as much as he thought Sherlock was taking too long. _Wait. Watch. Soon you can touch._ He held his breath, trying to remember if he’d seen Sherlock get dressed this morning. He hadn’t. Had he put pants on? But then John couldn’t decide if he wanted pants to be there or not so he let go of expectations and just enjoyed the view.

Even before they were what they became, Sherlock had hardly been a modest man. Whether he had been unaware or intentionally provocative, covering up had never been a priority. Sheets, dressing gowns, bits flashing, they were all of no concern. This was completely different. The way John was staring at him, Sherlock was sure that if he held up his magnifying lens, John’s gaze would set him on fire.

As Sherlock opened the button on his trousers, John realized he’d been a fool. No pants were definitely better. It meant he got to see Sherlock’s cock poke its gorgeous head out that much sooner. His tongue traveled round inside his lips seeking some moisture then snuck out when it came up dry. Sherlock was paying very close attention to his zipper but John called his name, the better to see the flush moving up from his chest. He lifted his head but closed his eyes. John wouldn’t have it. “Look at me. I want to see you. I want you to see what you do to me. How much I want you.”

Sherlock’s head was swimming, whether from his rapid shallow breathing or his craving for John’s touch, wasn’t clear to him. He kicked off his shoes, and drew the trousers down, concentrating on the slide of them over his bare arse after so many days of avoiding any friction. As he stepped out of them, he ran his hands over the skin, until John’s self-control broke. He stepped forward, growling, “Mine.” The trousers were kicked out of the way with violence and John placed Sherlock’s hands around his own waist. He took over, sliding his hands all over Sherlock’s silk shirt, savouring the cool slip of it over his warm skin. It gave them both an additional layer of sensation and Sherlock moaned. John lifted the shirt, finally touching the skin, just as silky under his fingertips. Surgeon’s hands, still not sensitive enough, still not able to feel as much he wanted. He jerked Sherlock’s hips forward and Sherlock’s head fell back.

“Yours…it’s always been yours. Always yours.”

“Damn right. And now that I did what I needed to do to it, I get to do what I want with it.”

Sherlock moaned again and said, “Yes. Yes. Bed. Please. Let me lie down.”

Pretending to be calm, John Captain-said, “I’ll tell you when I want you to lie down.” He ground himself up against him and Sherlock responded in kind. Fondling, _I am actually fondling,_ the cheeks of his arse, John squeezed and pulled them apart gently, then pressed them back together. Sherlock shifted and squirmed, feeling the indignity of being opened fuel his desire. He wanted John, wanted to show himself, display himself to the man that loved every last little bit of him, even the parts he once thought were filthy.

“Please John. The bed. I want you.” The sparks running through him were making it difficult for him to stay upright. “I’m going to wind up on the floor.”

“Hmm.” The Captain considered, envisioning his love with his face on the carpet, bum in the air, and he almost pursued that course, but the Doctor piped in. _Rug burns._

“All right. Bed.”

Sherlock tore his eyes away from John and wobbled toward it. When he got there, he paused and began to turn around, but John stopped him with a word: “Facedown.”

Sherlock sucked in air and crawled over the foot of the bed. John followed him. John chuckled and said, “Did you really think I’d let you hide that arse from me? I’m going to have my fill of it.” He gave him a swat on that delectable bottom he’d sworn off for, _How long has it been now? Months?_ Sherlock’s breath stuttered and he bucked his hips up off the mattress. John seized the opportunity to shove a pillow underneath him. The lube was in the bedside table and he grabbed it, flicking the lid up and down because the click of it made Sherlock positively wriggle. John chuckled again.

The welts had faded, leaving the colors of fading bruises, but all the lotion that had been massaged into that already smooth skin had left it velvety and John couldn’t wait to get his own skin onto it. He pushed Sherlock’s legs apart and crawled up between them. He stroked gently, cupping and rubbing circles with his palms, watching it ripple under his fingers. When he lowered his face and rubbed his own cheeks against Sherlock’s, his stubble prickled and that perfect arse rose up to meet it.

Tiny, fluttery kisses were next, then nips and licks and nibbles and sucks until John had covered every inch of it with the affection it deserved. The moaning it brought out of Sherlock gave John’s cock a boost and he figured he’d better get serious about preparing its ultimate destination. He pulled those glorious mounds apart and sent his tongue on a journey up and down all that new territory. It was so delicious, Sherlock rose up on his knees and stretched his legs further, offering more access. The pillow became redundant. Happy for the offering, John zeroed in on the tiny bud of an entrance with the tip of his tongue, loosening and slicking it up.

Sherlock pushed back against the tickling wetness, trying to draw John further inside of him. John hummed and Sherlock’s hips started to move in no discernible pattern, making it difficult for John to focus his lingual attentions, so he resorted to broad, flat swipes, which Sherlock had no objections to. When John’s tongue wore out, he pulled away and Sherlock whined in complaint. John gave him a swat and said, “Patience, you greedy thing.” In response, Sherlock waggled his arse as alluringly as he knew how, which was unnecessary, because anything he did with his arse sent John’s blood coursing southward.

John held his finger in front of Sherlock’s mouth until Sherlock realized what he wanted and opened up. “Suck.” The word sent Sherlock’s Adam’s apple up and down his throat. As Sherlock sucked, John watched it intently. “That’s it. You’ll want it nice and wet.” A squeak leaked out around Sherlock’s lips. John pulled his finger out with a pop and said, “Good boy.”

He stroked slowly from Sherlock’s perineum to his tailbone with that single finger. In a devilish tone, he said, “It’s going to take a while to prepare you, Sherlock. It’s been too long and you’re very tight. Are you going to be good for me? Patient?” John teased. Sherlock squirmed a bit at the words. “Yes, Jo—Captain.” John pushed that finger up against the tense muscles and there was a tantalizing resistance. Sherlock hissed in a breath. John let his finger rest there until Sherlock slowed his breathing down.

As soon as he was steady, John pushed gently again, enjoying the rise and fall of Sherlock’s tension. When his finger finally broke through, Sherlock groaned and John could feel him trying to relax around him. The slide of two inches of finger seemed so arousing, John kept it up for a while enjoying the view of his finger disappearing and reappearing, accompanied by the changes in Sherlock’s breathing. His anticipation built and Sherlock was ready for the next step, so he felt around for the lube bottle and dripped it down where his fingers had been a few moments earlier. He coated his fingers and went back to sliding, only adding a second finger when the first slid in unimpeded by the clenching of Sherlock’s arsehole, which had suffered from what they both considered to be neglect.

Sherlock consciously attempted to relax, but John advised him, “Push back, love. It will make it easier for me to come in.” Sherlock did as he was told and the second finger slid in smooth as silk. Scissoring and stretching, John waited to hear the noises that told him Sherlock was ready for the third, a soft sigh. “What do you think, Sherlock, are you ready for another? Are you loose enough for my cock?”

“Yes, Captain, yes John, please. I’m ready.”

Teasing, he said, “I don’t want you sore again, Sherlock. I don’t want to have to wait to be able to have you again when I want you. Maybe we should keep at it a little while longer.”

“Ooohhh, John please, I’m ready, I swear, I’ve waited so long already, now…”

John grinned to himself. _Please, three times. He’s ready._ He pulled his fingers out and Sherlock whined to be so empty. John chastised him. “Uh-uh. You said you would be patient. That doesn’t sound patient.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I can be patient.”

“All right. Show me. Impress me with your patience. I’m going to undress now. Close your eyes. Keep them closed. If you’re quiet, you can deduce what I’m taking off.”

Sherlock grabbed a pillow and buried his face in it to hide the groaning laugh that slipped through his tightened lips.

“Are you listening? What’s first?”

Sherlock turned his head so his ear was as close as he could get it to John, who took off his shoe and tossed it three feet away so that it made an unmistakable thump and Sherlock answered immediately, “Shoes. Obviously!”

“That’s a detective for you!”

“John...ridiculous.” John could hear him smiling.

It was so good to see him enjoy himself with silly little games, the intimate games lovers play. “Ok, ready? What’s this now?” John leaned closer and scratched the fabric of his shirt as he undid the buttons, clicking his fingernails against each one.

Thoroughly pleased with himself, Sherlock blurted out, “Shirt! Those are the buttons on your shirt!” John stroked down the side of his back over his ribs. “Well done, my genius!” Sherlock wriggled in pleasure and also, to rub his cock against the rumpled sheets below him. There was a damp spot there now, but he didn’t really notice.

John took his hand and squeezed gently, then let go. “Listen.” He undid the button on his trousers quickly knowing the sound would be negligible, then slowly, slowly, drew down the zipper on his flies. He saw Sherlock’s tongue poke out and a little breathlessly he said, “Trousers. Those are the…flies…on your…” His lips tightened and he sucked them inside his mouth. “Trousers.” John bent down and whispered in his ear, “Good boy.”

Sherlock stretched up his neck trying to feel John’s breath, but he was too quick for him and John took a step back. Sherlock reached out his hand, but John tsk’ed at him, “That’s cheating. Hands down.” Sherlock giggled the tiniest bit and gripped the pillow.

“Ok, love, you’re going to have to listen very carefully to this one. It may be too hard for you,” he teased. John slid his thumb inside the band of his pants, stretched it out away from his tight waist and let it snap. “What does that sound like, Sherlock?” Back to his ear, “Hmm?”

Sherlock ground his hips against the mattress and growled, “I can’t THINK anymore. Pants. The elastic in your pants and now you’re finished. Fuck me. John. Now.”

“Stroppy.” John pretended to pout. “Why are you so stroppy? And I’m _not_ finished, brilliant. You forgot something.” He stripped off a sock, careful this time, not to make the slightest sound.

“I didn’t hear anything. You’re cheating! There’s nothing left. John, I need you inside me,” Sherlock whined.

Success. The body was turning on and the brain was shutting down. John climbed on to the mattress and settled between his legs. “Oh, but you’re wrong. You weren’t listening,” he sing-songed. Sherlock giggled out loud, then said in mock frustration, “What? What is it?”

“Listen _again_. To the _other_ one.” said John as he pinched his bum.

Now Sherlock twitched away. “Ow,” he laughed. “Again. The other one. Of course.” He buried his face in his arms and groaned. “I forgot the socks.”

John laughed back at him and took off the last sock and dangled it over his bum, tickling his skin, just to hear him continue laughing. “All right. Naked. I’m ready now.” John rummaged around for the lube then carefully stilled himself and snicked the lid up, so the sound was clear and distinct. In a somewhat Pavlovian response, Sherlock shuddered and John enjoyed it immensely. He did not feel the slightest bit uncomfortable about his base manipulation. “I’m more than ready. I’m hungry.” On those gorgeous sit spots, John nibbled, tiny little nips that had Sherlock unsure about whether to twist closer or further away. It didn’t matter because every move created friction that ramped up the fever rising below his waist. John held his rigid cock and teased the head up from the base of Sherlock’s bollocks to the top of his cleft. Sherlock’s giggles were groans now and he followed John’s progress with his arse, trying to wiggle himself into position.

John was soberly looking down assessing Sherlock’s readiness, and said, “Hold still. I want to stretch with one more finger, I don’t want to --”

Thwarted once too many times now, Sherlock burst out in frustration. “No, no, no, now. I want to feel it. Feel you. Really feel you.” He whined. Writhed. _Wanton. This is what wanton looks like._ John knew that the stretch, an initial burn, was a sensation that Sherlock relished. John didn’t indulge him—or himself, often.

“It’s going to hurt, Sherlock. I’m going to hurt you.”

It certainly had been a while since the last time he had buried himself inside Sherlock and it wouldn’t be any kind of a sacrifice. As he was considering, Sherlock looked up at him, his pupils making his eyes almost black. He was panting, mouth open, and said it again, his voice cracking, “Yes please, John. Exactly. I want you to.”

How could he deny him?

John reached down to kiss that delicious mouth and Sherlock rolled over to make it easier. Desperately, he said, “Fuck me John, please. Hurry.” John nodded in full seriousness and pulled back. Sherlock lifted his hips up and John rearranged the pillow underneath.

Looking down appraisingly at Sherlock’s quivering hole, then back at his face, John said “I understand what you want, love, but so help me Sherlock, if you let me damage you—“

Purposely provocative, Sherlock interrupted him. “Says the man who shredded my arse to ribbons.”

John looked up with an avalanche of anger beginning to roll over his face. “Sherlock, that is NOT fa--”

Sherlock looked back at him with a devilish grin on his face, pleased silly he’d been able to rile him up. “You weren’t really going to say not fair, were you?”

John puffed out all the air he had been planning to rage with in a choked laugh. He pushed Sherlock’s thigh back and slapped him right on the arse. Then he laughed out loud. “Thinking you’re clever, taking the piss when you want a bit of rough, yeah? But always bare-arsed, idiot. Asking for it, aren’t you?”

“Obviously, I’ve been asking for _hours_ , now,” Sherlock complained, rolling his eyes.

“Right, but, I’m not starting till you promise…”

“YES, John! I promise if it hurts more than it should, I will ask you to stop!” He was almost shouting now, but Sherlock had gotten what he wanted: John, just irritated enough to get over his qualms about not being gentle. He muttered under his breath as he slicked himself up. He couldn’t keep from sliding his two fingers in again for one final scissoring, widening Sherlock roughly, but then he lined his weeping cock up with Sherlock’s fluttering arsehole. Just as Sherlock inhaled to keep whinging, John forced his way in, bollocks deep and bottoming out, in one sharp thrust. Sherlock’s incoming breath shuddered to a halt as the burn of John’s penetration overwhelmed him.

When he could, Sherlock breathed out and tried to adjust to the aching stretch. This. What he had been longing for. Being taken, known, fully, inside and out. John went deep, where no one ever had or would. Sherlock gave himself over to him.

John held still, not in fear for Sherlock’s comfort, but to be mindful and take exquisite notice of the tight, wet heat that surrounded his cock. They panted together, the sound filling the otherwise silent room, each waiting for the other’s equilibrium. Sherlock adjusted his hips, one at a time, pushing forward, then pulling back, wanting more, but not so much. They both moaned at the slight shift, Sherlock as John’s girth and length took up new space inside him, and John, as those spaces molded themselves around him more closely. John saw Sherlock’s head tilted back, his mouth open in a perfect O, brow furrowed as if in pain or intense concentration and watched for the signs that would show he was ready for more.

When Sherlock’s eyes opened, John unsettled him again, pulling out in one slow, sweet slide, leaving just the head of his cock sitting right on the inside edge of Sherlock’s opening. John grinned to see him tense up again, unable to keep up with the rapidly changing sensations of full and empty. He wanted Sherlock that way, losing his bearings, resigned to accept his unmooring, steadied only by his willingness to take whatever John offered. He wanted him off balance and he moved against him unpredictably, without any rhythm. Short, sharp thrusts followed achingly slow glides. John pushed back on Sherlock’s thighs, changing the angle of his entries. He sped up, slowed down, and stopped just to see how it shattered Sherlock’s façade. He had stretched one arm up overhead and was clutching at the spindles of the headboard while his other arm was thrown over his eyes. John reached up and uncovered his face, pushing his hand up to grab the headboard. “No hiding. Look at me.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and John marveled at the openness and vulnerability of his expression. John picked up his legs and hung them over his shoulders. He looked down at the spot where he and Sherlock were joined together and said, “Hold on tight, love.”

He pulled back slowly and then slammed his hips up against Sherlock’s still bruised arse, over and over again, making up for his earlier lack of purpose with a hard driving flurry of fucking. Sherlock grunted with every stroke and every time his eyes drifted closed, John called him back, “Open your eyes,” “Watch me,” “I’m here,” not wanting Sherlock to try to find some out-of-the-way place in his mind palace to start cataloguing and memorizing the feelings. He wanted him right there with him, struggling to catch up with what John was doing to his transport, with how completely and thoroughly he was being fucked.

Sweat was dripping from John’s brow and Sherlock reached up to smear his fingers through it. He licked them clean and John huffed out, “Touch yourself.” Sherlock stroked through John’s hair and then down his chest transferring the sweat to his hand and then gripped himself, tightly. John set him free to close his eyes now. But he didn’t close his. He watched as Sherlock floated on a river of sensations, breathing shallowly, mouth open.

He tilted Sherlock’s hips down just an inch or so and was rewarded with a whimper so sweet it made him curl over Sherlock, as if he could increase his pleasure by willing it so. He whispered to him, not wanting to break through his haze. “That’s it. Does it feel good? Go on.” Sherlock opened his eyes, closed them again. He slid the skin up and down, trying to match his rhythm to John’s thrusting. As he got closer, John helped him along by speeding up, slamming into him harder and harder, until he got so close himself, all he could think of was his own impending climax. He wanted to take Sherlock along, so he encouraged him. “Come with me. Come on, Sherlock. Come, come for me.”

The only words Sherlock could push out were, “John, John, John,” and then he was arching his back and coming onto his chest. The sight sent John spiraling over the edge after him. Sherlock could feel John’s release inside himself and he shuddered through aftershocks. When John finished, he collapsed, boneless, and they lay chest to chest, circulating their breaths into one another. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and hummed. The rumble vibrated into John and he smiled. He wiggled as his cock, soft enough, now, finally slipped out of Sherlock and there was stickiness everywhere.

“We made a mess, you know,” he said as he lifted up a bit, but Sherlock pulled him back down.

“Mm-hmm. Don’t worry. You’ll clean it up. Later.”

“Lazy git.”

“Mm-hmm.”

After rousing himself twice, John forced himself to think of the uncomfortable itch of drying semen and extricated himself from Sherlock’s grasp. He grumbled, then grumbled some more when John wiped him clean, top to bottom with a warm flannel afterwards. John pushed him over to make room for himself under the duvet and rolled onto his side so that Sherlock could wrap himself around him. He had fallen asleep for the third time when Sherlock shook him harder than anything could have warranted under the circumstances.

Now he grumbled. He looked over his shoulder. “What? What is it? Can’t I sleep now?”

Looking at him very severely, Sherlock said, “You’re not working tomorrow.”

“It’s Saturday, idiot. I never work on Saturday. We’re sleeping in.”

“Hmm. Good thing too.”

John burrowed down deeper and wondered dreamily before slipping away for the last time, to sleep. _Who’s on for Monday?_

**Author's Note:**

> Please know that kudos and comments are the safest addictions known to fanfiction writers worldwide. The more we receive, the more we're driven to write. If you enjoy ANY writer's work, let them know! And if you don't know what to say, check this out: 
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